The Red Space Between Us
by Stilwater Rundeepo
Summary: AU. Berlin, Germany, 1933. Thor and his parents are pure Aryan blood. Loki is their adopted Jewish son. Their story follows the rise of Nazi Germany all the way to the end of the Holocaust. Loki must choose between honor and loyalty, family and blood, love and survival, and soon his brother must do the same. Features the Avengers and more. Rated T.
1. Prologue

_Author's Note:_

_ First of all, this is a "historical-fanfiction". Meaning, it is set during a real time period in history and will include actual events. So a good portion of the stuff that happens here really did happen. __Another note is that none of my other Avengers-related one-shots, no matter who is in them, are not related to this story whatsoever, unless it is specifically noted that they are. _

_ All the characters are going to be the same personality-wise, but expect things like last names, occupation, relatives, and age to vary in similarity to the originals. If you don't like how I depict them, well, that is not my problem. The main cast includes: Loki, Tony Stark, Thor, the Odinson's, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, and Bruce Banner, among various OC's. Some OC's will in fact not be OC's, but based off of real-life people._

_ Important disclaimer: because of the historical context of this story, there will be religious and racial derogatory references that some of you might find offensive. I am _not_ writing this to be hateful to any racial, ethnic, or religious group. Anything like that is in full context of the story, and is just the characters, it isn't _me_._

_ F__eedback/comments/questions/praise/critique in the form of reviews are highly appreciated and welcome!_

_ "The Red Space Between Us" is rated T for violence, disturbing content, and some profanity._

* * *

_"The Red Space Between Us"_

_PROLOGUE_

* * *

When the night was darkest, Loki would remember.

When the biting cold froze the blood covering his head, and formed cracks in his hands big enough to fit a pencil in, he would close his eyes. And he would remember running as a small boy through grass that rose to his knees, barefoot under a golden summer sun. When all he could think of was his next bowl of soup or crust of bread, he rebuilt the memories detail by detail into the long hours—a steaming Christmas Day turkey on a table that was stuffed with cooked vegetables, hot biscuits, delicious cakes and pastries, cranberry sauce and pecan pie, all glowing from the crackling fire on the hearth.

When the darkest night was too much to bear, Loki would remember all of these things. Keeping those memories alive, reconstructing even the smallest of details over and over again—that was what kept his mind fresh and real. That was what protected the memories from time's wear and tear, the fraying of the edges and the decay of the saturation. Remembering them defended him from the attacks of insanity that were increasingly frequent.

Eventually he wanted to remember everything, even the bad things. It was better than nothing at all. At this point, it did not matter if they were terrible memories or pleasant ones, as complex as his old neighborhood or as simple as the taste of butter. All that mattered was they were his and his alone to hold and they had not been taken away from him by anyone, that there was still one small part of him they could no undo, or tarnish, or send away to be slaughtered.

And so, Loki would close his eyes and, once again, become one with the memories, however painful many of them were. For as long as he dared to remember them, they were still his.

Loki couldn't feel anything anymore. But he remembered.

He remembered the yellow fields, the thick grass. The laughter. The old synagogue. He remembered the faces of the old men, the women, and the children who were sent on the train car instead of him.

He remembered names that had long lost meaning and deepness to him. Father...Mother...Thor...Stark...Barton...Banner.

But most of all, he remembered that fateful day.

The day he learned he was a Jew.


	2. Sobald Jung

_"The Red Space Between Us"_

_Chapter One: Sobald Jung_

* * *

_[Historical context:_

_ In 1920's Germany, prejudice against the Jews was already abundant, but no direct discrimination was against them as a people group. The German economy was under extreme distress because of the debts owed from World War I and the worldwide stock market crash. Adolf Hitler, leader of the Nazi Party, was appointed Chancellor of Germany in January 1933. Immediately after taking office, he began his political propaganda campaign to blame all of Germany's economic, social, and national problems on the Jews.]_

* * *

_Berlin, Germany - March 2, 1933_

_._

The synagogue stood on a hill at the end of the street. In the spring, it would shimmer a brilliant yellow from its towering dome, as if the hand of God used it as a hand-rest. In the summer, it shone the same color of the corn fields during the harvest, gilded like the outside of a royal goblet. In the autumn, the descending leaves made its dome a warm yet subtle blood red, and finally, in the winter, as white as the purest of snow.

But on this day, it was none of those things. Instead, the synagogue was a pale and deathly gray, a cloud against the bright blue sky, a dry corpse withered under the sun. Which happened on occasion. But not often.

Every day, on their way to and from school, the Obermeier brothers, Loki and Thor, walked past that very synagogue. For them, it was always the defining halfway mark between home and school. So when they were at the synagogue, they could tell how much further they had to go. Sometimes, they could hear the rabbi chanting the prayers from inside. Loki would stop to listen, trying to interpret the mysterious words from the scattered Yiddish he knew. But Thor would laugh and dismiss it as 'religious gibberish'. Then one of them would clobber the other with an apple or a snowball, depending on the time of year, and someone would arrive at school snickering to himself with a black eye or bloody nose.

Their father, Olek Obermeier, was a renowned figure in their community. He was a retired general in the German Army, and the family name had been embedded deep into national military for multiple generations. In fact, it was not uncommon to see a plaque or a statue established decades ago to be dedicated to an officer by the name of Obermeier. In regards to prestige and popularity, Olek ranked among the university professors, the medical doctors, and the government officials. In a word, if one carried the name of Obermeier, it was almost one's destiny to someday enlist in the army and climb up the ranks until retirement.

Thor was Loki's senior by three years, and the spitting image of his father. His brilliant blue eyes seemed to glow with a playful, carefree spirit, in which Thor was more than kind enough to act in. He had a certain boldness to his voice that, when he spoke, silenced everyone else present to listen to what he had to say. Even as a child, Thor was known as an exceptionally strong and fearless lad, and was never known to back down for a fight nor cower away from any child who was older or bigger than he. This led to a small band of followers who considered Thor their leader in every which and way. After school was let out, Thor would lead them out into a field or a courtyard and play a ball game complete with tackling, biting, and wrestling. On other days, they might design an invisible fort near the pond and hold sieges or invasions, occasionally going so far as to divide into teams and build strategies of attack. In the Obermeier household, there were many late afternoons when Thor would come home covered head to foot in mud, bruises, and scratches, twigs caught in his hair and blood dribbling from a split lip, and one big toe bent the wrong way. However, while their mother, Frieda, would scold him for tearing his shirt and hurting himself, Olek would pat him on the head and commend his leadership of the other little boys. As Olek put it, he was often reminded that Thor was destined to be a strong soldier and effective leader in the German Army one day, and would glorify the family legacy as it had once been.

Loki, meanwhile, could not have been any more different from his older brother. While Thor shone light and fair in his physical appearance, Loki was dark and pale. He carried a brooding sort of nature, like a black, scrawny cat hiding in the corner of the room, glaring up with shimmering emerald eyes. Loki was not the one to speak the loudest or the boldest in a crowd. However, he was the one who knew how to twist words in such a way that even the most absurd or eccentric argument became believable. His way with speech made some believe he would make a great lawyer, or a poet, or a sharp-tongued troublemaker who would never finish university from telling off and correcting all his professors. For Loki, an afternoon spent practicing on the piano or reading a book was far more enjoyable than getting a broken bone and dirtying his clothes in a mindless game of tackle. It was for this reason that their father constantly pressured Loki to do the very opposite, to follow his brother on their outdoor adventures and play with the other boys. In front of family and friends alike, Olek was known to complain that his younger son remained indoors like a little maiden, and would soon grow the spine of one as well. Frieda, however, was pleased that Loki loved his music and his books. She liked to remark that he would one day become a great writer or pianist and would bring a new reputation of artistic intelligence to the family name. She would often bring him tea, cakes and a word of approval in the middle of his practicing or studying, and constantly encouraged him to do as he so wished. And while she knew she sometimes got carried away in her doting of him, she could not contain her pride of Loki's love for the arts, and that she had only been given one son made for military greatness.

So it went that way for nineteen years in the Obermeier household, peaceful and uneventful, until one day when it would all fall apart.

On this day, Loki was taking a late morning stroll, and he happened to walk by that old synagogue. Loki paused to look up at the pale dome, which was as gray as dead skin. From inside, the rabbi was singing one of the prayers again. Loki's old schooldays began to play back in front of him. All the smashed apples, the black eyes, the history papers Thor begged him to help finish as they walked to school on the day it was due.

_"You will never see me go into that place. Not a chance."_

_ "Why wouldn't you?" a twelve-year old Loki had replied to Thor's comment._

_ "Have you not heard some of the things they say about the Jews? I heard they do nothing but lie and steal."_

_ "You're so blinded, Thor. You believe everything you hear. I bet if you read some story where a man grew wings by jumping off a cliff, you would—"_

_ "Really? Who?"_

_ And Loki had rolled his eyes._

At the recollection, Loki rolled his eyes again. As he stared up, his thoughts drifted to his brother. Thor. The son destined for greatness. The born leader with the voice like thunder. If he wanted to, he knew where he could find his older brother—back at the military university, surrounded by his followers.

Loki did not know just how destined for greatness Thor was going to seem, in light of his dark little brother, before the day was done.

In this time of year, the outskirts of the city of Berlin bloomed with rich green grass and exploding wildflowers. The young girls ran out after school hours and picked all the flowers they could carry to sell on the streets, while the boys chased each other through the alleyways. Windows to the bakeries and chocolatries opened wide to exhale tempting, salivating aromas. The young women hung out the clothes to dry as the older women knitted and sewed on their front doorsteps. The more affluent women stepped out in the latest fashions, a small terrier trotting alongside them, and as Loki walked past them on the sidewalk, he tipped his evergreen woolen cap and tried not to blush. The air smelled clean and anew. His neighborhood was the same as he had always remembered it being: there were the rich houses like his, the shops, the stores, the smaller homes, the surrounding fields and small farms, and the various ethnic communities. And so, the nineteen-year-old son of Olek Obermeier walked on past the colorless synagogue, up the street that burst with early spring colors, until their second-story house on the end of the lane came into view.

On this day, Loki felt apprehensive.

Some days he felt lonely. Some, curious. But today? _Apprehensive_. Disturbed.

Perhaps, even, Loki felt terrified.

He glanced up at the house for a moment before walking up the thirty-foot path to the front door. The bay window was open, and he could hear the radio turned to his mother favorite station. It was the news, of course.

With one last glance back at the synagogue, which stood like a cold cloud on the bright ocean horizon of European skies, Loki cracked open the door and stepped inside. On habit, he carefully wiped his feet on the welcome mat. Then, after running his fingers through his greasy, black hair, he took off his woolen cap.

"Father?" Loki called out.

He heard his mother's voice from the parlor to his right.

"Your father is in his study. You mustn't bother him."

"He would not spare me but five minutes?" Loki asked bitterly. He took one step into the parlor. Frieda was in her rocking chair, knitting a half-completed, scarlet scarf.

"Loki. Shouldn't you be at work?"

"No," he said quietly.

Frieda's smile vanished in an instant, and she set down her knitting.

"Is something the matter? Did they let you go already or—"

Loki quickly hushed her in reassurance, not wishing to see his mother start up a worried fuss.

"No, Mother, it's not like that at all. But there is something I need to ask Father."

"Well, what is it, then?"

"Please. I just need to speak to him, at once." With that, he cut the conversation at a premature close, turning back toward his father's study at the other end of the hall. Although the last thing on his mind was a light chat with his mother, he did manage to catch a word or two from the news on the radio. Somewhere in there he heard the name of Adolf Hitler, the new chancellor of Germany. Then the man himself began to speak in front of a large crowd, and at hearing his voice, a sudden chill ran up Loki's spine. There was something about that voice...but he could never pinpoint what it was.

He reached the end of the hall. In front of him was the thick mahogany door with the gaudy brass doorknob. It was Father's study, and Thor's study to-be.

_Father, I beg of you, _Loki inwardly pleaded, _Tell me it isn't true. That someone just invented another trick for me._

Loki did not bother to knock. As he squeezed his cap in his hands, he pressed his lips together until they were white. Olek had his nose buried in a book about military tactics used in The Napoleonic Wars, and did not so much as twitch his nose when the door creaked open and Loki approached his desk.

"Black, not chamomile. And raspberry jam on the toast—"

"_Father_."

Olek perked his one good eye up. The other, he had lost to a wild boar hunt in the year 1895. But as soon as it saw Loki, the eye descended back into its neutral state of staring at papers. Olek let out a small sigh of disapproval that Loki had known to grow up with these nineteen years.

"I'm sorry. I thought you were the nanny. Leave me be. I have much work to do and I'm sure you have other things that need attending as well."

"Oh, I do have something, now that you mentioned it. I need your attention. Right now," he snapped. By then, it had matured to a far worse state than mere apprehension, and Loki began to feel it tingling in his knuckles and teeth, making his legs tremble like jelly. More than anything else, he was determined to hear the truth from an older man's lips.

"Know your place, son. I am very busy."

"Am I?" Never in a century could Loki imagine he would ask such a thing, and yet, here it was. "_Am _I your son?"

That got Olek's attention immediately.

"What on earth...I don't understand, Loki..."

The blank, childlike innocence painted across his father's face was enough to make Loki scoff, and he glanced away at the shelves and shelves of his father's beloved library.

"You very well know what I mean. Unless it is my mother who has been keeping it from the rest of us," he spat.

"Your mother has nothing to do with this. You would not dare accuse her."

Loki almost dropped his cap, but he managed to hold his head up.

"So...you admit it, then?"

Olek lowered his gaze back down to his book.

"Who told you when it was my duty to do so?" Olek asked.

"Oh, you decided to wait nineteen years, when I would just as easily learn it from anyone else?"

"I asked you a question, Loki. Who told you?"

Loki stopped. It didn't make a difference now, anyway. Then he sighed.

"The clockmaker down the street..."

* * *

Mr. Stark was the neighborhood clockmaker. His family originated from western Germany, but he had no siblings, wife, or children—legitimate children, at least, considering the man's behavior from a younger stage of life. His only known relative was his retired father, who apparently lived on a multimillion estate in England. He was labeled by the local Jewish population as something of an unorthodox, uncouth bad spot against the rest of their people, but to everyone else in the neighborhood, he was little more than a unique clockmaker who took a bit of interest in drinking. No one on either side would disagree with the opinion of the other. A few blocks down from the Obermeier house stood his shop, where he built and repaired clocks and watches. The shop was locally famous for having almost every kind of clock one could imagine—musical clocks, cuckoo clocks, animal farm clocks, ballerina clocks, Picasso and Dali and Michelangelo clocks, watches and watch accessories and accessories for the watch accessories, and even a clock for 'happy hour'. The going hypothesis for Mr. Stark's abundant creativity in regards to making clocks, was a secret annoyance he had with taking custom requests from his customers, but no one could prove it.

That morning, Mr. Stark was drunk, as was no real surprise. However, Loki had never seen him in such a state at this time of day before. After all, it was only Loki's fifth day on the job working as the assistant shopkeeper.

"Laddy. Where's my toolkit?" Mr. Stark snorted, rubbing something yellow out of his eyes. His working apron was hung around his neck like a scarf. Loki had just finished neatly tying his own apron behind the counter.

"It's _Loki_, sir. And you're stepping on the toolkit."

"I did? Well, why the hell is it on the floor?"

"Because," Loki sighed, "that was where you insisted it be left last evening."

And so the early morning chores around Mr. Stark's Clockwork and Repairs began. Loki started by winding up the clocks in the store window, which were the renowned favorite of the locals, especially the little children. Their sides were made of glass, so one could watch the brass and silver gears churn and twist inside, clinking and clanking and turning and spinning like magic. Then he switched the sign in the door from 'closed' to 'open', found a rag, and gave the windows a quick dusting.

Loki tried to ignore the man and set about completing his tasks. Five days ago, he had been lucky enough to land upon a job. His hope was that, while living in his parents' house, he could earn enough money to go to study music at a school in Vienna. It had been his dream ever since he heard of the school, and hoped one day he could become a pianist and a songwriter. But before all that, he had to work first, and thus far, this was his only chance.

But Loki stopped at what Mr. Stark said next. His heart did as well.

"So, Loki, when will you let the rabbi do the ceremony?"

"What? The _rabbi_?" Loki figured it was out of the man's drunkenness, and nothing more of substance.

"Sure. You'll want to be able to, um, go in the synagogue, won't you?" he asked, grabbing the edge of the counter to steady himself.

"Why on earth would I want to go in there?"

"Oh. So Olek has made you a Christian boy instead? All well. I might have known." Mr. Stark snatched up a screwdriver, gripping it in his scarred, calloused hands.

"Sir? What are you talking about?" Loki demanded.

"Um, isn't it obvious? You know—" he coughed up a hock of phlegm as thick as meat casserole, "you're almost twenty years old, already a man. Won't your parents, well, go back? Won't your parents let you go back to the others? I mean, I ain't or wasn't adopted, but that's how it works, doesn't it...?"

"You're drunk," Loki cried, backing away. "How dare you say that about me and my parents. You must mistake me for someone else."

"What?" Mr. Stark laughed, tossing away his working apron and leaning against the counter. He waved his screwdriver like a wand. "You mean all this time you never took a look in a damn mirror and saw it for yourself? You never even _asked_? You look nothing like your brother, Thor, and I'm telling you, even if I never knew about it, I'm pretty damned sure I would have figured it out anyway. Not that I think he's a handsome fellow..."

"Answer me!"

"Oh yeah, that. Well, Loki, now that it's time for you I declare..." he held up the screwdriver, "I declare, a toast! You can have _my _last name, I mean, if you want."

As Loki froze, stunned at his words, it seemed that Mr. Stark's eyes were opened and it dawned on him what he had just said.

"You mean...you _did _know about it, didn't you? Loki?"

But Loki had torn off his working apron, and run out the door to the shop as if for his life. The streets were cool this time of day, almost empty. Loki saw his reflection in a nearby puddle of water, and for the first time, he was horrified at what he saw.

He did look different, didn't he?

* * *

Olek let out a long, exhausted sigh when Loki had finished summarizing that morning's events.

"Now tell me, Father," Loki said in just above a whisper, "Was he mistaking me for another person all along? And if not, how much of what he said was true?"

"Loki, please understand. I was going to tell you...at the proper time."

"_At the proper time_? Did I not have the right to know that I wasn't your own son?"

"Of course you're my son. I love you as much as I love your brother. But I wanted to wait. I wanted to wait until you could make the decision for yourself."

"What decision?"

"If you wanted to remain in the Christian faith, or join your people."

So his suspicions were right, and they died down to a painful rut in the hollow of Loki's stomach. He looked away.

"So Mr. Stark was right. I'm not a Polish or a German. I'm not your son nor Thor's brother." The next words choked his throat. "I am a Jew."

"Loki..." Olek rose from his leather chair and walked around the desk.

"I am a Jew."

"You're my son."

"Am I?" Loki hissed. "What about my real parents?"

Olek reached out to touch his shoulder. Loki flinched away, eyes still cast to the maroon pattern carpet.

"Your mother had already died in childbirth. Your father was very ill. He came to the Old Towne Inn, the small business I owned until 1918. The man had been to my inn before, and he owed the community multiple debts. Nobody else would take him in for they did not wish to harbor a man with such a faulty reputation. Frieda was the one who insisted we let him stay. His illness was taking him, but he carried an infant in his arms, barely a month old. He begged of us to take care of you, and said the child's name would be Loki. You were small and sickly, but Frieda nursed you back to health. When he died a week later, we chose to carry out his last wish and adopt you as our son."

Loki, too stunned to breathe, took a step back. Tears welled up in his eyes. His legs began to wobble.

"And this man who came to your inn..."

He saw sadness in the old man's eyes.

"He was a starving artist, wise, but misused by the world around him...of no religion, and of Jewish nationality."

Loki let out a small sob, but Olek went on.

"Mr. Stark and some of the others in the community knew about it, but not all at once. I didn't want to tell you until you would be old enough to decide—"

"You lied to me," Loki shouted, taking another step back. "I'm not your son! I'm the son of some dying peasant who couldn't take care of me." It was all beginning to make sense now, all too painfully. "You didn't take me in as a son. It was only to ease the guilt you would have otherwise been forced to bear. Just to fulfill the dying wish of a sickly widower. I'm nothing more to you!"

"Loki...how can you say that to your—"

"It's true, isn't it? Isn't it. Admit it!"

The door behind Loki opened, and he smelled his mother's perfume waft into the leathery, inky air of the office. Frieda whispered his name and laid a gentle hand on Loki's shoulder. She must have heard his shouting. But Loki, choking on another sob, turned away and walked briskly through the open door. He ran down the hall and back onto the front porch of the house, feeling like a child. Mr. Stark's words from earlier that morning echoed in his mind.

Before either Olek or Frieda could arrive to try and comfort him, Loki stood up and walked back down the pathway. Quickly he wiped his eyes and put his woolen cap back on. Above the rooftops and chimneys, he could still see the dome of the synagogue, gray and corpse-like. And yet, he also felt a beckoning toward it.

A tear fell down Loki's face as he slowly approached the strange building. But it was the last one. He had no more tears for today.

No more tears for his entire world that had fallen apart.

* * *

Thor came home late that evening from the university. Slamming the door behind him, thus accidentally startling Frieda in the parlor, he loosened his tie and swept his soles across the mat.

"Mother, I'm home!" he hollered.

Frieda, less than eight feet away, nodded with a tight smile.

"Yes, Thor, I know."

Thor stepped into the parlor, glancing around. All he found was his mother's knitting and the radio turned to the news station.

"Is Father finished with his work yet?" he asked.

"Yes, Thor. He, um..." her voice trailed and her knitting slowed. "He retired to bed early. He has not been feeling well since this morning."

A look of concern rinsed the tired cheeriness from Thor's eyes.

"Is he ill?"

"No, just not himself."

"What do you mean?" Thor stuck his neck, like a giraffe, into the kitchen next to the parlor, then into the hallway. "The house is strangely quiet. You have not even had your evening tea. Where...where is Loki? Surely he would be home from work by now."

"I don't know. He left later this morning."

"Mother. Where is he?" Thor asked with growing worry and distress.

He was surprised, and a bit stricken, to see tears in his mother's eyes. She was a tenderhearted creature, but knew how to reserve emotions if need be. Tears were a rarity for her.

"Thor," she whispered, "Please. Find your brother. I have no idea where he is. He could be anywhere. He needs you."

"What is this you speak of? What has happened to him?"

With a glance toward the wooden staircase leading upstairs, Frieda replied,

"That is a question your father must answer to...if he can."

* * *

_Author's Note:_

_ And that is chapter one!_

_ Yes, at the start of some chapters I will slip in a blurb to give the historical background of the story. So if you know your history, feel free to skip by all that stuff._

_ Just for clarification: I changed Odin and Frigga's names to Olek and Frieda, and Odinson to Obermeier. "Obermeier"...German surname that translates to "higher" and "superior". I'm sticking to the first names as much as I can, but some of the last names just can't stay the same. Hope it's not too hard to follow!_


	3. Uhren Und Kaffee

_"The Red Space Between Us"_

_Chapter Two: Uhren und Kaffee_

* * *

Thor ran.

He was a fast runner. When he and his little brother were young, he eleven and Loki eight, he was almost always the winner of their backyard sprint races to and from the front porch, much to a breathless Loki's contempt, except for the times when Loki would challenge Thor to a longer race only to find sneaky shortcuts to the finish line. In his school days, despite their father's pries to bury his nose deeper into his studies, Thor excelled at the top of his physical education class in racing. And finally, before Thor's leadership skills were discovered, his small jobs included running errands for various businesses around the neighborhood, and people could count on him for shaving off a few extra minutes each trip. There was not one boy in Thor's grade who could outrun him, whether in short distance or long distance. Unlike his younger brother who remained gangly, out of shape, and moderately underweight for his age, Thor was practically a legend among his peers for his strength and stamina, his ability to win most of the races and lift the most weights, and when he boasted about it the other children could do little more than chime along and nod their heads in agreement. And he was _fast_.

But on this night, Thor felt as if he would never be able to run fast enough.

He felt a heavy weight in his heart slowing him down.

He raced down the darkened street, past bakeries and butcher shops beginning to close up as the last of their accompanying stenches or aromas greeted him one last time. Through the dimly lit windows he caught glimpses of the families sitting around candlelit dinners, reading from the Holy Bible and blessing their food they were about to eat. Rowdy laughter rose from within the taverns in which men drank, sang, and laughed to their content. The neighborhood boys, the local street urchins who long since abandoned their education for sport and fun, huddled in groups and played games in the alleys. Streetlights were ignited one by one, illuminating rows of glowing spheres up each street as far as Thor could see.

He clutched his coat a bit tighter, and Thor began to look around and into the usual places Loki tended to visit, or the ones he knew for certain Loki visited. This included the public library, as Loki loved books, or the chocolatrie, as Loki was an avid lover of chocolates. But over thirty minutes had already passed since he left the house, and Thor's searching was all to no avail.

Four blocks or so from the Obermeier house, Thor found himself perspiring, pressing his palms against his knees, with no sign of his brother anywhere.

"All right. Think, Thor, think. Where would Loki have run off to?" he wondered aloud. By then, it was late evening, and although early spring, darkness was already on the rise. It would not be long before night fell and finding Loki, wherever he had run off to, would be all the more difficult. Thor felt a chill of wind in the air. "Friday evening. Loki. Where would he be?"

It could not hurt to try the nearest tavern, for it was not uncommon for groups of adolescent friends to gather in such places on the eve of the weekend, and neither was it uncommon for he and Loki to join them. Then again, it would be most unlike Loki to cope with anxiety, anger—or whatever drove him to leave the house so abruptly—by indulging in the drink. If anything, Loki would want to drown himself in chocolates or books, or at the very least a quiet place where he could meditate and hear his own thoughts.

_Where, then?_ wondered Thor. He jammed his fists into his pockets and strolled on. Somewhere, next to his right thumb's knuckle, he found a peppermint stick from that morning, which he began to suck on thoughtfully.

Then, like a light bulb switching on, it occurred to him.

Mr. Anthony Stark's Clockwork and Repairs. Of course. Loki had recently acquired a small job there, had he not? Why wouldn't he go there to do some late-evening work?

For Thor, it would be the right place, but at the wrong time.

* * *

Trembling, Loki banged his fist against the locked door to Mr. Stark's Clockwork and Repairs. Even as he spoke, he found that his voice shook.

"Mr. Stark? Mr. Stark."

He had to repeat this more than once. Finally from inside the shop he heard drunken gurgling followed by a stumble over some hard wooden object, as well as a cringe-worthy crash. Loki cast his gaze down to his shoes, gritting his teeth.

"What a rotten old bastard. Cannot even stay sober but a few hours..."

The door flew open, and Loki was quick enough to shut his mouth at once and cease his mumbling. A stooping, ragged, and shorter figure stared up at him, blinking as if in a daze.

"Oh. So. You're back?" asked Mr. Stark.

"Of course I'm back. I came to make up for the working hours in which I was absent," he snapped. When Loki swallowed, an ache formed in his throat that he had not felt since he was eleven years old and fell out of a tree, breaking his left wrist.

_No. He won't see me break. He's not going to hear any crying out of me. This is to settle a score and he knows that, he _should _know that._

"Sure, you did. Sure, you did." Surprisingly, the clockmaker was not in the mood to crack a silly grin or keep a short laughing fit all to himself. Instead, he seemed rather serious, or in his form of seriousness. "But, uh, we both know that isn't really why you're here, right?"

Loki took a step back.

"In that case, I think I'll return when you are far less intoxicated."

"Who ever said I was drunk?" he demanded.

With a quick smirk, Loki answered,

"_You_ did."

"Actually, I was just getting caught up in some of my old clock designs. I get these great ideas, but they tend to slip my mind on and off like—like little leaves getting carried away by the breeze and they're just so hard to grab and write down, and, well, drinking makes them heavier and easier..." his gaze wavered. Then it snapped back to the young man on his doorstep. "Come on in. I just put on some fresh coffee. And I'm starting to notice you look like you could use some." He backed away and returned into the shop.

Loki followed with a tense shuffling up the steps. Once again, he took off his cap and held it tightly in front of him. He hesitated only two steps into the shop, and was struck with the sudden bewilderment as to why he would return to this man for a simple compensation, as if some sort of revenge he could manage to concoct would erase his memories of the entire day. And if even that, what he could do to make Mr. Stark remorseful for his drunken mishap. The answer, of course, was that Loki had not come for any sort of revenge at all.

In that case, he had to wonder to himself what place did he have to come here, what purpose lay in displaying his horror and trauma for someone else's enjoyment, and why he should act as if he was the defeated one when it was their fault for deceiving him...for _nineteen_ years. Why should he return? Why should he pretend he wanted to settle the score with this man when it was all but impossible to seal loose lips that had already spoken a brutal truth? Why should a rusty, arrogant fellow like Mr. Stark listen to some sob story from a boy who had learned he was adopted?

A rusty, arrogant, _Jewish _fellow.

And perhaps that was enough. It was enough that it was this man had known all along about Loki's true heritage, which also implied he might also know the story of Loki's biological parents. It was enough that as long as Loki had known Mr. Stark, the old clockmaker had stayed far away from the Berlin community that heralded the Obermeier name as a military one, a heroic one. It was not Mr. Stark who had personally decided anyone the name of Obermeier was destined for military service and fame, unlike many others in the neighborhood, nor had he considered Thor any less obnoxious or immature or inclined to steal clocks as his younger brother, Loki. Mr. Stark, too, was Jewish. And that was enough.

"You can stop the pretending, now, Mr. Stark," Loki grumbled, "unless you were so drunk you cannot even remember the events from this morning."

But it was as if Mr. Stark had not even heard him. He ponced over to the coffee pot on the little stove at the back of the shop, shoving back a pile of dirty dishes with his forearm. Then he snatched up a clean mug, and with a twist of the wrist, splashed a cup-full into it.

"Hey. Are you listening to me?"

"Take it easy, Loke. I just woke up from a nap, so cut me some slack. When you get to be my age—"

"It's _Loki_."

"Fine, then. Coffee, Sir Loki?"

Loki, unable to stand up any longer, sat down in a humble wooden chair at the small table that was positioned behind the shop and right outside Stark's personal living quarters. When Loki did nothing to reply the offer but to stare blankly, Mr. Stark shrugged and poured another regardless.

"No matter. You could use some, anyway."

All at once, something inside Loki snapped. It was as if a wall had been broken down, a barrier breached. His father's words spoken in the study that morning attacked like red ants up his spine and across his skull. He forgot what it meant to sit properly in his chair or speak only when spoken to, or that anyone in the whole wide world was human at all, that they were not all animals like him, and he wanted to open his mouth and scream until they listened to him and he could watch them burn as he burned and remembered, _"I was going to tell you at the proper time...remain in the Christian faith or join your people_._"_ And his throat ached as he struggled to swallow again.

_Oh, dear God. Thor is not my brother. He _never was_._

_ Oh God, oh God, no..._

He raised a hand to his face so Mr. Stark could not see the tears that had suddenly welled up in one eye.

A deep, dark sound from some previously untouched place in his soul, in that moment, spoke.

"It was_ your_ fault."

"Myfault?" Mr. Stark echoed.

As he pulled up another chair and sat across from Loki, he set down the two coffee mugs. The nineteen-year-old Obermeier's temptation to throw both against the floor or against somebody's head was intoxicating to the point of monstrous, like a demon was tampering with his mind until it could snatch him up and possess him. But the monstrosity was soothing, like cold water on a burn.

"Had you not been so drunk, you stupid, _stupid_..." a sob choked back his next words and Loki could no longer speak. Embarrassed by the tears, he hid his face in his hands.

He tried to stop it, but he was too late already. His mind was already tracing back to every fond memory of his childhood. In front of him the images flashed, from the treasures of Christmas dinner and birthday gifts, to the smallest of dew on green grass and his mother's hand on his head. The walks to school with Thor, the pastures in the summertime, his job at the bakery when he was fourteen and all the rolls they never found out he stole in secret, Mother nursing every scabbed knee and black eye, and Father proudly welcoming him home with open arms. The taste of ice cream and the smell of cinnamon and the sound of his Mother's humming and the American jazz music on the radio and Father's roaring laughter.

_ It had all been a lie. All of it._

None of it had been his.

"Why did he never tell me?" Loki gasped. Then he shouted. "Why you and not me! What was he keeping me from!"

Startled, he felt a hard, scarred, and calloused hand rest on his shoulder. Still, he refused to lift his gaze. Mr. Stark began to speak, slowly.

"I had...hoped you'd come back...so that I could make...my apology to you."

An _apology_? From Anthony Stark?

"Is the sky red...?" Loki grumbled.

"After you left I had some customers coming in and I had to get busy, and I wondered why you left. Then, it sort of occurred to me what I might have said. An older man like me does things when he's had too much to drink. Young men do the same, of course, there's no difference in that. But nobody tells you to drink except yourself. And I know it was not my place to say it. It _was _quite the rude discovery."

Loki said nothing. He was tired of putting his thoughts into words.

"All I'm saying is...you, my boy, should drink that coffee, let me do a bit of the talking around here, and don't give hell over leaving your post today. And I promise, I will keep at least half an eye on my mouth."

A cold churning swam in the pit of Loki's stomach, and then disappeared a moment later. He pressed a hand against his abdomen so it would not return. However it soon did, and was slightly stronger that time. To help, he leaned back and tried to relax in the chair.

"I do not want coffee. A brandy, maybe?"

"Take your time. We can stay up all night if you want to. I mean, I won't mind. We can just have the errand boy Jarvis run the shop while..."

All of a sudden, an alarming sensation overcame Loki like that of a tidal wave of cold, rancid water flooding his stomach. It leaped up his throat until he was choking on his own tongue as it shriveled to the back of his mouth.

"Excuse me, sir, but I think I'm going to be..." Loki sprawled out of his chair and made a mad dash for the restroom a little ways down the hall. He wrapped his arms over his chest. A gagging sound began to erupt from his mouth.

All those years were a lie. A _lie_.

It made sense why Thor was going to take Father's place—why _he_ was doted on the most—why _he _was the more perfect son. Why Father had favored Thor all those years. He _was _perfect. The Obermeier family even boasted of the pure Aryan blood the Nazi Party had so exalted as that of the superior race of Germany. No matter how much their father claimed to love him, Loki would always be the adopted one. The Jewish one.

He burst open the door to the restroom and almost immediately dropped to his knees. Before he had but a split second to clutch the rim of the toilet seat, he leaned forward and retched. His stomach ached with the stress of forced emptiness, but he retched again. The violent, animal like sounds of dry-heaving leaping out of his throat were a great relief for Loki to release, and it was not long before he was trembling head to foot from what had come over him. The tears clouded his vision until he closed his eyes long enough for them to flow down. Still, he retched again. It went on and on he knew not for how long, but it felt like an eternity of hurling over that old toilet, clinging to the rim for dear life.

When he had finally finished, Mr. Stark handed him a towel with which to wipe his face. Loki, shaking, stumbled back to the table and sat down in front of his cup of coffee, dabbing his eyes. The towel tasted of metal and oil. His body gave an involuntary shiver.

He should have known it would be a bad idea to eat a whole box of chocolates that afternoon.

"You done?" asked Mr. Stark as he tossed aside the towel.

Loki, if only to get rid of the taste of bile in his mouth, took one sip of the steaming beverage. It was delicious.

"I...think I'm going to be all right..."

"That's a good boy. Now, drink some more. You're doing fine."

It occurred to Loki how tired he felt, and he let his eyes flutter closed as the steam from his coffee tickled the tip of his nose. His stomach ached as if Thor had kicked him, not exactly an unfamiliar sensation. He tried to relax.

"Loki...?" he asked. "I...thought you knew."

Loki hesitated before replying.

"Are you trying to tell me that all this time, for nineteen years, I've been walking up and down this street and looking at your clocks in the window, and you thought I _knew_?"

"Um...well, yes. Your father Olek didn't like to talk about it."

"Of course he wouldn't. He wanted to keep it a secret. He wouldn't let anyone talk about it in front of me or Thor, isn't that right." But Loki could not help but let out a small, bitter scoff. "I doubt my father would have told me himself. He would have been better with waiting for someone else who would tell me...rather suddenly."

"Hey, I said I was sorry—"

But Mr. Stark was cut off by a sharp, startling knock on the front door.

* * *

Thor had been lucky enough to come upon Mr. Stark's errand boy, Jarvis, to help him find the Clockwork and Repairs. Had he not, he would have been at least an hour late in finding it. After all, he was more than not less inclined to the works of an old alcoholic carrying a questionable reputation throughout the community, especially when said alcoholic also happened to be a Jew. Thor had heard more than enough about the Jews from university. Jarvis had been playing cards with a group of his friends, and for a few hard-bargained pennies, he agreed to take Thor to the shop.

When they arrived, Thor instantly rattled his knuckles against the door. Behind him, he heard Jarvis back up and shuffle away. Thor turned around.

"No, stay but for a few minutes," he said.

"What for, Obermeier, sir?"

"I might need help finding my way back."

Jarvis nodded and clasped his hands behind his back, but could not help but stifle a small chuckle as he scratched at some lice in his mess of curly blonde hair.

Thor was not all that surprised as to who answered the door. The man brought a wave of overlapping smells that which consisted of grease, strong alcohol, and clothes in dire need of a wash. Thor choked a bit, as he was unused to such smells and the sudden bombardment of all of them at once.

"Good evening, Mr. Stark. Is my brother here?" Thor wheezed.

"Oh. So big brother's looking for the little guy." Stark leaned one elbow on the doorway and sipped from his coffee cup.

"He's been missing since late this morning, and I was wondering if—"

"And what would you do if you found him? Hm? Haul him home like a potato sack?"

"I would like to know what happened. Loki was upset by something this morning and I was not told why."

"So you don't know?" Stark cracked a grin. "No surprise really, I didn't think you would." With that, the man rolled his head to the side, consequently spilling a splash of coffee. "What do you think, Loke? Should I let him know you're here?"

At that, Loki appeared from the back of the shop and stumbled over to the door. Thor pursed his lips, noticing a silly smirk on Stark's face, like a lad who had replaced sugar with salt in the bowl.

"Well, it doesn't matter now, does it, you old bastard..." Loki grumbled.

"Loki...Mother has been worried sick about you since you left." Thor paused as he noticed an uncanny paleness in Loki's facial complexion, as if Loki couldn't be paler than before. Even the color had seemed to fade from his eyes.

"I know how to care for myself. I'm not a child," Loki spat, slinking back a step or two, like a cat.

"You should come home. Mother is worried. Father is ill. I do not know why you ran—"

To Thor's surprise, he was cut off by laughter. Loki was laughing, slapping his leg and holding his side as his eyes turned glassy. Such an action was quite the rarity for Loki, who preferred a subtle chuckle over the boisterous ruptures Thor and their father were known to frequently expel. And as Loki did so, Thor shifted uncomfortably from the weight on one foot to the other. A raven-eyed Mr. Stark watched as he poured himself yet another cup of coffee. Thor heard the shuffling of small feet behind him; Jarvis the errand boy was preoccupying himself by throwing stones at a stray cat. Then, when Loki had at last finished, he backed away from the door and wiped tears from the corners of his eyes. Although, Thor knew even that sort of laughter couldn't have been intense enough to produce tears.

"Leave me be, Thor. Go back to your fans. Go back to the university." A poison, with an uncanny suddenness, leaked into Loki's tone of voice. The laughter was long gone. "It's what Father would want for his son, is it not? You were always the better one in everything. And now I see why." His voice cracked. "I see why."

"What in heaven's name are you talking about?"

"Please...leave me." He took another step back into the shop.

"What will you do?" Thor asked.

"I said _leave me_. Tell Mother I'm all right."

Loki leaned forward to pull the door closed, not with a slam, but a resolute tap and click of the lock. Thor looked up for a moment, blinking away the dizziness and assembly of words and phrases void of sense and meaning rattling around in his auditory memory. Jarvis tugged on his sleeve. At the exact same moment, the stray cat, now with a swollen eye and a bruised flank, limped away into the shadows to find a peace and solace that would not be there for him.

* * *

"Well, _that _was rather rude...if you don't mind me saying so," Mr. Stark remarked just prior to a loud belch.

Loki sat back down, waving his hand to clear away the smell.

"I mind almost every time you so much as open that mouth of yours," he snorted.

"You could have been a little nicer. He was pretty damn-worried for your skin and just didn't want to see you in trouble or passed out or broke, and not a lot of people are like that around here."

"When I need Thor's help, which I promise I never will, I'll _ask_."

"Just like you _asked _me to let you in after working hours?"

"That's different!" Loki snapped, gripping his coffee cup in both hands. "You don't understand, do you? Thor is the last person I want to see right now."

Mr. Stark paused, raised an eyebrow, and traced the rim of his cup with his thumb.

"All right. I get it. Sure, Loke."

"And don't call me Loke. It's terrible. It sounds like something you'd name a parakeet."

After a quick sip of coffee, Mr. Stark cleared his throat and changed the subject.

"So, since you came all this way, I'm assuming you want a place to stay for a night or two? After all that ruckus, you wouldn't want to go home to with your tail between your legs, asking parents who aren't really your parents to give you shelter. I wouldn't, either. See, I know this stuff."

Reluctantly, Loki nodded, letting him continue.

"And you were hoping I'd have some space to let you bunk down. Let you use my bathtub, fix you breakfast, hide you when your father comes stomping out here to fetch you. And you just insulted me."

"I'm still inclined to believe you owe me a favor. A _big _favor."

"Oh. In that case..." With a groan, the clockmaker pried himself out of the chair. He pinned his hands behind him and cracked his back, a rattle of crunching joints that resembled an elephant stomping on a pile of dead bones. Loki cringed and tried to remember why he picked this place to find a job in the first place. "Unless you don't mind sleeping on a hard floor, you're welcome to stay. For the night. Or whenever you're ready to head on home. I'll try not to snore."

"I'm sure I can manage. Besides..." his voice trailed, "I doubt I'll be able to sleep at all tonight."

Mr. Stark was about to walk away, but he hesitated. Loki looked up at him, noticing the same look on the man's face when he was about to confess that he thought Loki had known.

"Laskier. Joseph Laskier. That was your father's name," Mr. Stark finally said.

* * *

_Author's Note:_

_ Sorry for the late update, but I was out of town for most of last week._

_ As much as it pains me to say this, this is NOT a Frostiron story, at least not in the romantic way. Instead expect it to be Frostiron bromance. Now, I know in the canon universe Loki is older than Tony Stark by hundreds, even thousands of years. But in regards to Asgard age standards Loki would still be considered a young adult, and on Midgard Stark is already approaching middle-age. So in a way Stark IS older than Loki, but that age difference is going to be more significant in this story. Let me know what you think of my alternate-universe approach. I actually have a lot of fun writing this take on their relationship, as you can probably tell!_

_ It's hard to think of good nicknames for a name like "Loki" that are a bit embarrassing but not too degrading. I was playing around and came up with "Loke" (rhymes with "bloke"). Not sure I'm the first to use it but I hope you like it nonetheless :)_

_ And for the record, Thor is an oaf._


	4. Neue Anfänge

_"The Red Space Between Us"_

_Chapter Three: Neue Anfänge_

* * *

When Thor learned the truth, he was not as shocked as he had expected himself to be.

The night before, he had returned home without his little brother, much to the dismay of Olek and Frieda. Yet, even in such circumstances, he was not informed in the least about what was going on, and only that he needed his rest and would be told in the morning. Confused, but consenting to his parents' wishes, Thor retired to bed.

Over his usual potato pancakes, hash browns, biscuits and gravy, raisin muffins, and hot coffee the next morning, Thor sat down across from his father at the family breakfast table in the kitchen. As both men were accustomed to rising early, the sun was still in the process of peeking up. Thor ate slowly, so to be sure he would not miss anything said.

His hash browns fell off his fork and onto the place mat.

There was a long pause. Thor felt a dark, dismal cloud take shape over him.

"All this time...Loki was..._adopted_?" he whispered as soon as his father had said it.

Olek, rubbing the heavy bags under his eyes, took a sip from his cup of tea.

"Mr. Laskier's wish was that we would find a safe place for Loki. We nursed him back to health, and soon realized we could not bear to part with him. You were only three years old back then, so you would not remember it."

Thor gulped down the second half of his drink.

"Well, I...I never knew," he finally said, staring blankly at his plate. With the back of his hand he wiped crumbs from his mouth, and his index finger remained between his lips. "Does...anyone else know?"

"There were several families in the local community who knew Joseph Laskier, and about his son. But, at my request, they promised never to speak of it, and especially in front of you and Loki." Olek paused to turn to the nanny, and said to her, "Raspberry jam, not the apricot."

"Of course, Mr. Obermeier." She was a small ginger with great talent for cooking, and had been the victim of many a prank by Thor and Loki in their younger days. However, while Thor's had been mere jumping out from the closet or, in teen years, sweeping her tiny frame into his arms, Loki had preferred the dead animals in the sock drawer or rearranging items in the kitchen when guests came to supper.

The nanny bowed her head curtly and tip-toed away. Olek chomped into his toast as Thor waited for him to continue with the story.

"I was going to tell him at first, but as the two of you grew older and, well, went your separate ways, I worried he would take it too hard. Perhaps I hoped it would always remain a secret. That I would never have to tell him. That no one would speak of it again, and, Loki would always be convinced that he was normal, like us. However, just yesterday, the clockmaker down the street accidentally made the mistake of implying the truth to him. And so, I had no choice but to tell him everything."

Thor hesitated. The full shock hit him like a blow upside the head. He choked up a bit of biscuits and gravy. He pictured Loki from the last time he saw him, and as far back as he could remember. There was not one grain of an atom in Thor that could come to terms with the fact that, all the while, that pale little boy who played piano in sunshine and rain was _not_ his brother.

"What happened to Loki's biological parents?"

"They died. Both have been dead these nineteen years. And as far as I know, Loki was their only child. But I barely knew the Laskier's while they lived here for the short time that they did."

"To think...all this time, I thought he was German like us...pure Aryan blood."

"Loki may be of Jewish heritage, but he is still a member of this family. We took him in to raise him as one of us, as our son, and that is how it is going to stay. It should not matter who his parents were or where he comes from. Do you understand this, Thor?"

"Yes, of course, Father. It's just..." Thor took a brief moment to collect his thoughts, until he chose to veer the topic off of Loki's biological parents and the ensuing discomfort it provided to Thor. "That explains it. That's why Loki was so distressed yesterday, and why he still has not come home. He acted as if he was angry with me."

"I'm afraid he did not handle it well, as you can imagine. If it had been you I wouldn't have been as worried. Loki, however, takes everything too hard; he always has. His habits and tendencies over the years have weakened his backbone, while yours has grown stronger. Nevertheless, the whole thing would have caught anyone off-guard, I'm sure."

"Father, I can't help but wonder something, since you've told me this..."

"What is it, Thor?"

"I was wondering...perhaps allowing Loki to go to the music school in Vienna, as you allowed me to go military school here in Berlin...might have stopped something like this from happening."

"How so?"

"You said only a few families knew he was adopted, and that was twenty years ago. Maybe...by the time Loki would have finished school and came home, those who knew about it would be gone. If Loki did not have to earn his own tuition to go to the school, as was your wish, he could have left sooner. Which means he wouldn't be around anyone who knew." Thor realized what he was saying, and he began to redden in the cheeks. "I'm not saying you were wrong if forbidding him to go...I'm only saying..."

"Yes, Thor, I understand. The thought did cross my mind. But our house has a set of—moral principles, and ideals—that cannot be compromised. It is our duty to serve our sacred Germany, not chase fantasies of becoming the next Ludwig van Beethoven. You made the right choice in enlisting at the university, but Loki believes he can follow his own path by learning music in Vienna. He still needs to find his rightful place in the Obermeier bloodline. That is why I told him if he wanted to go to Vienna, he would have to pay for it all on his own."

At that point in the conversation, Frieda entered the dining hall. Although she was still in her bathrobe, there was no doubt that sleep had long been gone from her eyes. At the nanny's return, she requested tea.

"Mother? Loki is staying with Mr. Stark...the clockmaker," Thor said once she had sat down.

"Oh, heavens. Poor Loki..."

Thor was not sure whether his mother was remorseful over Loki's predicament, or the fact that he was staying with Mr. Stark, of all people, but he decided not to ask.

"Thor, won't you go and fetch him? Bring him back home. I don't want him to feel like we've pushed him away or drove him out."

"No, darling," said Olek. "We should let him go. Loki is not a boy anymore. He needs to make his own decision. If he wants to come back, he will come back. We cannot force that upon him."

* * *

"Laskier," Loki echoed. "Loki...Laskier..."

Mr. Stark hobbled in, holding up a beer bottle.

"You want a drink? It'll perk you up."

"Ugh. It tastes strange."

"That's funny. You always seemed to order it in the tavern on—"

"Not the beer, you idiot, the _name_."

Mr. Stark mouthed one large 'O'.

Loki peered up at him, squinting in the morning sunlight that streamed in through the shop window and outlined all the ticking clocks and the sign that read "Closed".

"It's not right. I'm Loki Obermeier. Loki Obermeier, that's who I've always been. Now I've got the name of this nobody I never knew who died in poverty and obscurity. What am I supposed to do with that?"

"There are worse names out there. You can browse my guest book."

"You know what I meant," Loki grumbled. He paused to watch Mr. Stark as he took a rather drawn-out swig from his own beer and proceeded to parade over to the counter, where he lit two cigarettes and stuck them in either side of his mouth. It was not until several seconds later that he noticed Loki was watching him, and at that, he cocked one dark eyebrow.

"What's eating you?"

"You want to know?"

"Might as well."

"I was thinking, for a Jew claiming to be devout in his religion, you seem a bit ...unorthodox."

"And, do I look like I care?" He shrugged blithely as he held out both cigarettes to take another gulp. "I honor the Passover. And that's all I really bother to care about."

"I see. Well, that is not how my father described you when I was younger. I know not how or why I ever believed him."

"Yeah, I think we've already established that there are a lot of things Pops doesn't tell you," Stark sighed.

Loki looked back to the wall ahead of him, ignoring the man's comment.

"My _other _father, anyway. Loki...Laskier. It is not right. It could never be right."

As Mr. Stark stepped over him to open to doors to the windows, Loki twirled a string around his thumb and index finger. Thoughts of the house waiting for him several blocks up the street bounced off the inner walls of his consciousness, and set a heavy dread in the pit of his stomach like he had swallowed an ocean.

Memories he thought long forgotten returned to his train of thought, like pieces of an old shipwreck floating to the surface with the sting of a white-hot flame branding them to the steam engine. He remembered watching Thor kiss the cutest blue-eyed blonde in school, who had been the same girl Loki asked out on a date only the day before. He remembered listening to his father scold him for his constant mischief and trickery, always ending the verbal flogging with a final double-lash of, "If only you were more like your brother." And he remembered walking past the old synagogue twice every day and on his occasional walks, a rabbi reciting the prayers from inside. Every time they had called him their son, every time he called Olek and Frieda his father and mother—had been a lie. All of it had thrived under that one festering, rotting lie.

Which made Loki wonder something that most repelled him. If his parents had been willing to keep such a secret from him that he was adopted...what _else _could be merely an illusion he had been convinced was a reality? How many_ other_ lies had they told?

_Ugh. I don't want to be sick again. I just won't think. That's right...I just won't think about it at all._

"You all right?" asked Mr. Stark.

But Loki brushed him away and rose to his feet. After walking across the room to the counter, he donned his evergreen cap, pulled on his jacket, and gave the collar a sharp tug to straighten it. A greasy hand slapped him on the back and he winced.

"Hey, Loke, are you listening to me?"

"You're not drunk again, are you?" Loki asked with a snap. "Not _this _early in the morning."

"Who, me? Nah...if I wanted that I'd bring out the big guns. Nope. This is just a stick under the wheel to get me rolling in the morning. Say...let's go buy some fresh eggs and have ourselves a nice breakfast. What do you say?"

"No, no thanks. I'm think I'm going to go for a walk."

"Walk? But, why? Walking means exercise."

"What does it matter where I'm going? And stop calling me that _name_."

With a final tug, Loki shuffled across the shop, hoping he would not be followed by the man. Luckily for him, Mr. Stark was not in the mood to put in more effort, and sat back down in a chair. Outside, Loki could hear the groaning and yawning of a calm city rising to morning, in the waking stages of their bustle and routine. Then, with a final glance back at the olive-skinned, unshaven man sitting at the chair with his head lowered in front of the bottle, Loki slipped out the front door.

The fresh early dew dampened the plants and brought a soothing chill to the air. Loki tucked his coat in closer and brought the collar up to his cheeks. His eyes felt sore and dry, and empty. His stomach gave a loud growl, but his throat automatically responded with the insistence that he was not hungry. After yesterday and the following sleepless night, food was one of the last things on Loki's mind.

The last place he wanted to be, now, was the house.

_ How many other lies had they told._

A group of little children was on the sidewalks selling bunches of wildflowers so they could buy fresh fruit for breakfast. Along the street, vendors lined up with an array of their daily bargains—candies, chocolates, scarves, baskets, wooden toys and ivory canes, as the alluring aroma of hot cinnamon buns wafted from the nearby bakery, a quaint but charming location on a street that could use an occasional good smell every now and then. Loki remembered also that a family named the Kogan's owned the bakery, and they too were Jewish. He knew that much for he had seen the men don the kippah's as they entered the synagogue on various occasions. Still, looming in the distance, was the synagogue, cold and bright.

Loki had an idea.

_Yes, _he thought. _I'll go there._

For nineteen years he had walked past it as the outsider looking in, listening but not seeing, no more than a curious stranger. And now, in a small sort of way no matter how one looked at it, he was one of them now. He knew the truth.

If nothing else, there was no other place for him to go.

Besides, he was curious. Now more than ever, he was curious.

It was at that moment, suddenly, that a chill ran up his spine, a sound pounding the earth but a moment. Loki stopped in his tracks.

It was...marching. Unified, deliberate marching.

Loki cast his eyes to the ground, tracing every dirt streak and wood chip on his shoes like a constellation of filth. He needed the distraction. Meanwhile, rows of parallel, tall, precise black leather tipped by, burning bright in the sunlight, which were that of the soldiers in the deathly gray uniforms with the gilded brass buttons and blood red emblems on their shoulders—on which was the black spider.

Sure enough, they were coming right around the bend, as Loki had anticipated the moment he heard them approaching. A squadron consisting of no less than a dozen soldiers was marching up the street, arms swaying at their sides, the sound of their goose-stepping bouncing off the brick buildings.

_Oh, great, just..._

Loki hesitated. What was he thinking? How should anybody else know he was Jewish? There was no way a person outside of that small circle who knew Joseph Laskier would ever find out. Besides, his identification card still said he was an Obermeier, which consequently meant he was pure German.

_There, see? Stop worrying. I have nothing to be afraid of. Nothing's changed since yesterday; I'm still Loki Obermeier to the rest of the world. That's all._

Only then did Loki notice something about their uniforms.

They were the same color as the dome of the synagogue.

The group of children had looked up and noticed the approaching presence as well. They hastily began to bundle together what few coins they had earned by selling the flowers. However, they were too late. The bright, icy blue eyes of one of the younger soldiers had already locked on the little group. Soon, his comrades had also noticed.

A second glance at the children made Loki gasp in alarm. He recognized one of them—no, at least three—as Kogan children. It was unmistakable; he had seen them helping their mother in the kitchen when Loki made their bread deliveries the year before.

"_Kinder_! _Kinder_!" two of the soldiers hollered, as they drifted off the street and waved their hands at the children, which were concealed by black leather gloves. A few heads in the market turned at the sound but not for long, if only out of short-lived curiosity as to whom was being addressed. The other children backed away, leaving the three Kogans and two others exposed to the men in gray uniforms towering above them like giants.

"Yes, sir?" a boy replied, one of the Kogan's.

"_Was machen Sie_?" a soldier demanded.

"S-selling flowers."

Loki's mouth ran dry as he stared into those dark, terrified, young eyes. The oldest could not be past his twelfth year.

"No, you're not, you little liar. You're stealing."

"We did not steal anything."

Several heads turned at that, declaring new interest.

"Then where did you get all that money? Little thieves. You liars. You rats," another soldier laughed.

"Thieves!" yelled a nearby witness—a witness, Loki distinctly remembered, as a woman who had purchased a few wildflowers from the same group of children mere seconds before the soldiers appeared.

The taste in Loki's mouth turned sour.

The oldest child was grabbed by the collar and then thrown to the ground. One of the little girls screamed.

"Mischa!"

"Sophia, go," the boy cried.

"Rats. Little Jewish thieves," several members of the crowd hissed.

Surprisingly enough, one of the soldiers stationed toward the back of the squadron approached the first, and said,

"That's enough; they don't know any better. They're children."

"_Ja_, I thought you would say something like that," the first replied.

Loki's heart pounded in his chest as he stepped forward. He saw an image in motion merely one week old—an old man, a Jew, thrown aside because he was walking too slow in front of a German woman, not a hand lifted to him for help. It had not been the first time Loki was an eyewitness of such undeserved treatment. His throat choked, as he lifted his head, and finally spoke.

"They did not steal. They earned all of it."

_Twenty-four hours ago, would I have done this? _he could not help but wonder.

He doubted it.

The soldiers, and the crowd, froze and snapped their heads in his direction. The boy, Mischa, pursed his lips until they were white as he backed up to rejoin the others.

Before Loki realized what was happening, the nose of a pistol was pointed right between his eyes. He gasped. The hot sauerkraut breath of the Nazi soldier with the pistol made his eyes water.

"And why should we listen to you, Jew?"

"What? I'm not a—"

"Of course he's a Jew," said someone from the crowd.

_Oh, god. No, no..._

Loki looked around for the source of the voice. It did not take long for him to locate it to a young man with bright curls and dancing eyes. The face was familiar, and in fact, Loki realized the young man may have briefly visited their house from time to time. Then he remembered, he was one of Thor's classmates at the university. They were in the same company, too.

The soldier grabbed Loki by the jaw, wrapping sausage-like fingers over his chin. Breathing in deeply, he leaned in with a sharp hooked nose to peer closer. Loki cringed and tried to turn his face away, but the grip on his mouth was firm. The smell of sauerkraut was so bad Loki felt greatly relief that he had not eaten any breakfast. The young man in the crowd stepped forward and nodded once.

"_Ja. _That's a Jew, all right." the soldier said after what felt to Loki a long time.

The leather against his neck was like dead skin.

_This is disgusting. I can't believe he's doing this._

As Loki was pushed away, he shot a glance at the children. The boy named Mischa took his sister's hand in his and began to back away from the scene. In a moment, the others were following him as well. Loki's second swallow got caught in his throat, for he was well aware of the potential consequences of his next move. But as long as he wouldn't allow it, nobody was going to hurt those children.

"Well, what does it matter if I'm a Jew or not? It's the truth, isn't it?"

The hush that rippled through the crowd was pleasing to his ears. It meant that he had their attention. That they had taken notice and knew what he was up against. That he had broken their rules.

_This is all disgusting._

"And do not _ever _touch me again," he hissed.

Before he could speak again, the same soldier shoved him backwards with the butt of his rifle. Loki tumbled onto the hard pavement, and his back was bruised by the edge of the curb. The crowd, still with their hands on their mouths and their parcels hanging by a thread from their wrists, began backing away into dispersion. It was clear that they sensed an oncoming event that they did not wish to be witnesses of.

Loki braced one palm and bent his legs back, deciding to stay down for the time being. The soldiers were eying him as if he were a raw slab of meat, hanging by a hook in the butcher's shop.

"It doesn't matter what you say. You're still a little Jewish...pig," the soldier said. Venom jetted from his tongue. He looked hungry for crisp bacon.

Loki glanced in the direction the children had run, but they were already gone. At least he had that much. He backed up but did not have far on the street, nor the time to get back up. The soldiers were beginning to close in on him, raising their rifles or pistols or batons, a pack of hungry wolves cornering a defenseless animal, and Loki felt very much like he was about to be devoured. His heart raced. All other thoughts evaporated from his mind except that this is what he was going to get for breaking their rules.

That was the first time in Loki Obermeier's life that he felt true terror, and a great dread that he was about to take his final breath in this life.

It would not be the last.

All at once, a sound interrupted the ruckus on the street. Wincing, Loki heard the high-pitched shriek of an officer's whistle. It was the signal for all soldiers to report back to headquarters at once. Even in that first experience of terror and dread, Loki had to hold back a small smile of victory. He felt like he had just beaten Thor in a marathon.

Warm spittle that smelled of sauerkraut sprayed his cheek.

"Not finished with you, little Jewish pig."

Then, scoffing, the men in the gray uniforms backed away. The dark expressions on their fair faces were unchanging until they had disappeared and left to rejoin the rest of their squadron. It was all he could do to avoid the looks that passerby now cast upon him, long after he had gotten back on his feet and brushed the dirt off his pants. As his heart beat still raced, Loki breathed a sigh of relief. Using a handkerchief from his pocket he dabbed at his face until the mess was gone. He was safe. For the moment, anyway. Possibly until word got out of the incident. Thor's classmate may have spilled the news to everyone, but at least—

_ Thor's classmate!_

That was how he had known!

From the back of Loki's throat came a low growl. He felt his ears begin to redden with rage.

_Thor...damn you. Damn that big mouth of his. Damn that he had to go and tell someone at the university and let the whole thing slip. I might have been able to keep all this a secret a while longer. Now, it will only be a matter of time before everyone in town knows. And I'm not even ready._

How _could _he even be ready? Twenty-four hours ago, he had been an Obermeier boy with German blood and a retired military general for a father.

Now, he was almost the polar opposite of what he had been. The colors of his world had changed in the blink of an eye. And the morning had never been so uninviting.

Perhaps, Loki hoped, being in fellow accompaniment would help him decide what he should do next. At the very least, it was worth a try.

* * *

To Loki, it felt strange that all this time he had walked by and looked upon this building, but had never imagined he would be inside it for himself, within its walls, tasting its air, and yet here he was doing just that.

Of all the images he had associated with what could be inside this place, images carefully constructed detail by detail in his mind each time he walked past the synagogue on his way to and from school, he had not come even close to the actuality. It was quiet this time of day, but not deserted, and a few small families as well as individuals were quietly sitting in groups, heads lowered. The front was simple in its decorations but elegant as well, lit by candles on a gilded table. When he looked up at the dome directly above him, Loki's breath was taken away, for he saw a three-dimensional array of intricate paintings covering the entire ceiling. Some depicted Biblical tales, which he recognized as his mother used to read it to him and Thor before bedtime when they were younger, and others were scenes that could have only come from the supernatural or the imagination. The colors were subtle yet inviting, calm yet deep, simple but sanctified. As Loki dropped his gaze back down, he felt a sense of bewilderment and shame, as if he was not supposed to be here, which in a sense, he was not.

Before he had taken but two more steps inside, however, he noticed a figure approaching him from his left, possibly more than one, and he turned. Unable to see their faces in the dimly lit back of the room, Loki could not tell who they were until they were less than ten feet away.

"Obermeier," the figure said, "we are glad to see you have come. My name is Uriah Stern." He made a little bow with his head.

Loki knew this man. He had served under Olek in the military over a decade ago, and lived not too far away from their house.

"Good morning, Mr. Stern," he said quietly.

Uriah Stern smiled, but it was not one out of joy, peace, or relief. It was a smile of sadness, the worst sort of sympathy one could muster. That smile made Loki feel like the man was looking right through his soul, and all that stormed, churned, and wept inside of it. It made him want to run away until he could shrivel up.

"I was one of the men who knew your father, Joseph Laskier. We knew that one day, when Olek and Frieda decided it was the time, you would learn the truth, and we would be waiting for you, whatever your choice would be." He paused. "You may ask us anything about Joseph Laskier. And as his only son, you are his heir."

"I had no brothers or sisters?"

"That is correct. Loki, how do you feel? Are you well?"

"I've been better."

_So Father entrusted this secret to a few select men who happened to know Joseph Laskier. And they've been _waiting _for me, for nineteen years._

He wondered what might have happened to him if Mr. Stark had _not_ been one of those men, and in such circumstance, if these men would have waited for him to their graves. Strangely, it was not a pleasant thought, nor a comforting one.

Uriah Stern put his hand on Loki's shoulder. Loki trembled a bit at the touch, but resisted flinching away as was his impulse to do so. The hallowed silence sapped the moisture out of his mouth.

"I'm sorry," Stern murmured.

Loki pulled back a bit but did not break eye contact with the man.

"Come, Loki. You may sit down and join us. From this day forward, it is your choice."

After considering what other options he had left, which were very few, Loki took one step forward. And he began to follow Uriah Stern deeper inside step by step, breath by breath, thus leaving behind the young man named Loki Obermeier, and in his place, a complete and utter stranger named Loki Laskier, as a red space between them divided the two, until they no longer knew the other.


	5. Kleine Bruder

_"The Red Space Between Us"_

_Chapter Four: Kleine Bruder_

* * *

Loki spent nearly the entirety of his time inside the synagogue in utter silence. It was not so much that he did not know how to say what was on his mind, but there seemed to be nothing to say at all.

As he walked up the middle aisle, taking off his cap and stuffing it under his arm, Loki watched the older man in front of him with increasing interest. Uriah Stern seemed to be around sixty years of age, either that or a fifty-year-old who had worked too long and too hard. He was short, with a back that curled forward, and years of toil had worn away the broadness of his shoulders. He had olive skin, bushy eyebrows, and a small mustache, as well as a small scar over the side of one lip. Although his clothes were of a simple material, his shoes had been polished until no smudge or speck was left on them, a fact Loki couldn't help but notice.

As Uriah sat down in a seat towards the middle, Loki sat down next to him, not knowing what else to do. He folded his hands in his lap and looked up and around him, but the room was silent.

Loki felt himself bristle. And he thought of this man watching the son of Joseph Laskier live out his life in the Obermeier household convinced he was of the same blood, and preparing for what he would say when a day such as this would come. It put a sour taste in Loki's mouth. It was as if he had been someone's experiment, their mathematical equation, their stolen relic, played with at their disposal.

"I was a friend of your father's, you know," Uriah said quietly.

Loki refused to make eye contact, and stared straight ahead. It wasn't as if he had to pretend to be interested in his surroundings. Uriah continued, speaking slowly.

"He was ambitious, a man with vision, but he lacked the support. He wanted to be an entrepreneur and start his own industry, make millions and create a new family legacy. At least, that's what he called it whenever we had a drink in the evening. He failed a few small businesses in Bavaria and moved here when his luck ran out. We became good friends, and he also knew...what is his name, the clockmaker...Anthony Stark."

Loki closed his eyes and tried to picture what this Joseph Laskier must have looked like. All he saw, instead, was a silhouette of a stranger.

"That is when you were born and he lost his wife. He worked himself to death, trying to pay off all his loans," Uriah said. "After he died, your _other _father, Olek, asked us not to mention it or say a word to you until he felt you were ready."

"I don't understand. Why didn't he?" Loki asked in a whisper. "I mean, he could have told me what I was from the beginning, why didn't he?"

It was Uriah's turn to be silent. Then,

"I wanted to tell you. So did Anthony Stark and some of the others. But, I also wanted to respect Olek's wishes. Otherwise, you know, it would have been rather confusing."

"Sure..." Loki sighed.

_The others. _Two simple yet ominous words. How many _others _were there who had also carried this information all along? How many had passed away since then? If so, was it possible that Uriah Stern and Anthony Stark were the last few, if not _the _last?

"And your father loved your mother very, very much. There may be some people around here who will tell you otherwise, but never doubt it. He wanted to build her a nice home in the country. He wanted four sons and four daughters; I still remember when he told me that. When she died in childbirth, you were all he had left, and, I'll always believe he died in peace because he knew you would be safe."

"Thank you, Mr. Stern. I don't want to hear anymore for today," Loki interrupted.

"I understand."

"No, I don't think you do." Loki looked up at him. "My father forced you to never speak of it all this time? What—what did you think was going to happen if you did tell me? Why did he have to decide everything?"

"It isn't my place to speak on Olek's behalf, Loki."

Loki bit his lower lip.

_So this was all _his _fault. He told them to keep silent. Why? I don't know why. So, I was taken in to ease his guilt, and my heritage was covered up so he wouldn't be embarrassed of me._

The very thought felt like a punch to the throat.

"Are..." he asked, "Are you finished, Mr. Stern? I'd like to leave."

"Yes. Just one more thing, before you go. I have something to show you." Uriah reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small wooden box. As Loki watched, he opened the box carefully, unwrapped some paper inside, and pulled out a small metal object, which turned out to be a pocket watch. It was small, pewter-gray, and rusty around the face of the watch, in which the big hand pointed towards the twelve while the little hand pierced the side of the nine. A crack spread across one corner of the face, and there were noticeable scratches around the winding crown.

Loki glanced around hoping that no one was watching. He began to wish they had met in some other place than here.

"An old watch."

"Not just any old watch. This was Joseph Laskier's watch," said Uriah Stern.

Loki froze and stared at it, struck by the sudden knowledge of the watch's intrinsic value. On its glass face, a fingerprint was visible when the sunlight hit it through the stain-glass window.

_Is that my father's fingerprint? _he wondered. Probably not, but it was worth the sentimentality.

"As I said, Joseph liked to think big, have big dreams, and the little things like taking extra care of his watch sort of slipped his mind. It was just part of him. This was one treasure he never sold. His father had it before him, and I don't know how far back it goes, but Joseph kept it. On his deathbed he entrusted it to me." Uriah unraveled the watch's chain from the box and handed it to Loki, who held out his open hand to take it. "And now that you know the truth, I think it should go back to you."

Loki looked down at it, still frozen. In his hands, it felt heavy, burdened with the weight of its history in a family legacy Loki knew he had been deprived of for all his life. It was dead silent of any ticking sound, a watch frozen in time. Gently, his fingers closed over the face until he at last had the bravery to put it in his coat pocket, still holding it. As Uriah watched, he stood up out of his seat.

"Thank you for your time," Loki said quietly.

The old man nodded with a sad look in his eyes, and he watched Loki until he had backed away, put on his cap, and left the synagogue, trembling as he walked.

_That's who I am. Not an Obermeier. A Laskier._

It would always sound strange.

At first, it felt like a comfort to be holding the watch that once belonged to his father. It was as if he was not alone, that there had been someone there once who loved him no matter who he was or what he wanted to do, and that his real roots had not all but disappeared. In fact, whenever he wanted, he could learn all he needed to know from Uriah Stern and whoever else was still around who had known Joseph Laskier.

Then it was no longer a comfort but a horror. Because try as he might to learn all he could, the name of Laskier would always be a stranger's name, and Obermeier would be the name he had been raised to believe in. Nobody was going to change that.

Now what was he going to do?

But Loki already knew his own answer.

Within the hour, he was back at the Clockwork and Repairs, where Mr. Stark was hunched over a wall clock he was trying to finish putting together. He did not look up from his work until Loki intentionally slammed the door, shaking Mr. Stark out of his concentration.

"Oh...you're back. Anything special happen?" he asked.

"I'd rather not talk about it." Loki walked over and put his work apron back on, still recalling the coldness in the soldiers' eyes as they had surrounded him. He was not going to think about what sort of ordeal he might have been spared from.

"What's that?" Mr. Stark asked, unable to miss that Loki was holding something in his pocket, which surprised Loki that the man would be so attentive.

Loki hesitated for a moment, considering if he wanted Joseph Laskier's very watch to fall into someone else's hands, and especially those of Mr. Stark's. But after thinking it over, he pulled it out and delicately laid it on the counter.

"It was his watch. Uriah Stern gave it to me."

"Oh, I see." Mr. Stark picked it up and gave it a thorough look from all angles.

"It doesn't work, and if you were willing to—"

"Yes, I'm aware it doesn't work, and yes, I'll fix it up for you. No charge, on the house."

Loki gasped as Mr. Stark looked ready to toss it over his shoulder onto one of his piles of gears, rags and half-completed projects.

"Just, please be careful. How soon can you have it done?"

"Three or four hours should do the trick. Why, you in a hurry or something, Loke?"

"I told you to stop _calling_ me that," he snapped, snatching up a broom in the corner. Then he set to cleaning up the hordes of dust and wood chips scattered among the floor of Mr. Stark's main workplace.

Mr. Stark watched him sweep furiously, until he said,

"You know, since I still feel kind of bad and all about the other morning, I'd be all right if you went home for the day."

"No, I can work. I'll work all day. I need all the money I can get."

"What do you mean?"

Loki paused, broom in hand. He stared at the floor, his back turned to Mr. Stark, as he said his own answer aloud.

"I'm leaving. And I don't think I will be back for a long time."

Again, Loki was surprised, as Mr. Stark fell quiet as a mouse, a most pleasant but foreboding sound.

* * *

Olek Obermeier jumped at the sound of a loud and sudden clink.

"Frieda, please don't do that..." he sighed once his feeble heart had recovered from the startle.

His wife leaped to her feet.

"How can you sit there and do nothing?" she snapped.

"What can I do? It was Loki's choice."

"But you know it was you who drove him to that choice. Now tell me where he's run off, please."

"Darling, I'm busy..." he began, but she cut him off.

"Don't 'darling, I'm busy' me." She would have slammed her teacup down a second time had she not already stomped away from her end of the table in the most ladylike fashion possible for such an action. Instead, she stabbed the back of Olek's evening newspaper with a spoon, startling him yet a second time. "You have no reason not to tell me. Where is he?"

"What led you to believe he would tell me where he went?"

"I'm no fool. You were here when he came back just an hour ago. I wasn't here, so tell me."

Olek folded his newspaper and looked up at his wife.

"He is leaving."

"Leaving?" she echoed. Her eyes widened. "What do you mean, leaving?"

"He is leaving Berlin, for the countryside. To find work."

"There—there's plenty of work here."

"It doesn't matter. I knew when Loki heard the truth, he would struggle with how he was going to allow himself to be changed because of that fact. I knew, eventually, he would want to question everything. For Loki, this is one of the answers." As he leaned back in his chair, he added, "It is the most reasonable choice he could make."

"I surely don't see how."

"We both know he's never liked the taste of the city, and right now, I believe the best we can do is let him sort most of this out on his own. He needs to be strong. We can't treat him like he's still a young boy. Leaving will do him good."

"What if he didn't come back?"

"Of course he will come back. He cannot live on his own for long with the money he has saved, and when it runs out, he'll return to us and enlist..."

She rolled her eyes. Her voice cracked when she spoke again.

"Please, Olek, stop doing this. Stop pretending Loki is just like Thor. Stop pretending he sees things the same way you do. For years you've tried to make him the son you wished he could be, and all you did was turn him against you."

"That's quite enough..."

"And what about me, Olek? Well?" Frieda crossed her arms and tried to hide the ache forming in her throat. "How do you think it felt for me to hide the truth from Loki all those years? I was the one who wanted to tell him from the start. _I _did." She forced a small laugh of exasperation. "But you said it would be better _your_ way. For your sake I stayed silent, and now I regret it."

Olek sighed.

"There is nothing we can do to change the past. Some things are better left unsaid."

"And now you are going to let Loki, just, run away like this?"

"I'm sorry, darling. I understand your pain, truly I do. But it's too late to do anything now. I can't stop him. He could have already boarded the train, for all I know."

Frieda spun around and strode for the entry hall, but not before she spat,

"Loki is not some token for your social prestige, Olek. He is your _son_."

And for the third time, he was startled as the door slammed upon her exit.

* * *

Only when his train was to arrive in eight minutes, did Loki begin to have second thoughts about leaving Berlin in such a disorderly, last-minute fashion as was this.

It had all been last-minute, come to think of it.

The idea of leaving the city had, in fact, crossed his mind the other day as he was wandering the streets delaying his visit to Mr. Stark's shop. His mind had been brought back to one or two week-long trips to the countryside to visit some old friends of his father's who served with him in the military. One trip had been to a farm on the outskirts of a small Bavarian village, named Amlingstadt. For a young boy already weary of the city life, it had been an exciting adventure of feeding the animals and chasing his brother through wild pastures. The memories had been a delightful relief in his train of thought, albeit bittersweet in that a dark secret had been kept from that young boy all along. Then, later, as Loki faced a long night sleeping in the back of Mr. Stark's shop, the thought had formed into an idea. Taking his own leave from the hustle and bustle of Berlin for a place like Amlingstadt, sounded almost as appealing as going to the school in Vienna.

But the straw that broke the camel's back on this small idea of Loki's occurred yesterday afternoon when the young man announced Loki was Jewish in front of a whole crowd. It would not take long for word to spread around, and everyone would find out sooner or later. The fact that he carried the name _Obermeier_ would protect him for a while, but even that would eventually run thin.

Loki knew he had no other choice. He had to get away, and quickly.

He had never set foot outside of Berlin before, other than those short-lived trips, and a gray void of uncertainty loomed on the darkening horizon. As he watched a young couple huddle in the evening chill as they boarded the train, and a lonely old woman sitting on the next bench down force her arthritic hands to slowly knit a child-sized sweater, Loki's thoughts began to wander.

Five more minutes until the train arrived. When he got on, he would be leaving the home he had known for all his nineteen years. For the first time in his life he would be out by himself in a world he did not know. No one would get to say goodbye, not even his mother. He wondered what sort of work he might be able to find. Would he be a hired hand on a farm or a bartender in a small country tavern? What sort of people was he going to meet?

After finishing his working shift at the Clockwork and Repairs, Loki had returned home only to pack a few things. He had no suitcase or other sort of luggage on him, save for a small duffel bag in which were his few earnings, a loaf of bread from Mr. Stark, and Joseph Laskier's watch. Now he could hear its _tick-tick-tick _again, and he caressed his fingers over the scratches and dents that he found made the watch almost characteristic on its own. The longer he looked at it, the more it seemed to hypnotize him as a way of connecting to a new past, like opening the pages of a book for the first time. And it was as if holding the watch that belonged to his true father, a man named Joseph Laskier who died obscure and in poverty nineteen years ago, gave Loki a sense of hope that the man would not always be a complete stranger to him. Perhaps, one day, Joseph Laskier would be to Loki not just a name or a history fact, but a person, and more importantly, the person of which Loki was the only heir.

And that was what made his departure all the more bittersweet, for he knew that such a day could not be for a long time. Perhaps someday Laskier would not be a stranger, but not tomorrow, nor the next day.

The train with the young couple slowly pulled away, and Loki leaned back in the bench with a sigh. He restrained his wandering fingers from returning to the pocket watch. As more minutes ticked by, and still his train had not arrived, Loki stood up and began to pace back and forth, his duffel bag tucked under his arm.

Then, with a startle, Loki jumped. He heard a shout.

"Loki...! Loki!"

Loki knew who it was at once. He squeezed his eyes shut and clasped his hands around the handle of his bag.

"Damn you, damn you, _damn_ you, Thor..." he hissed under his breath.

Loki turned around as he heard Thor run into the station, panting as perspiration trickled down his neck. At the same moment Loki turned away from the train tracks, a faint whistle blew in the distance.

"Loki...!" Thor shouted again, which unbeknownst to him, threw yet another load of hot coals upon the anger boiling within his little brother.

"I see Father's sent you to talk me out of this; how typical," Loki said with a huff, letting his gaze drift away from Thor's breathless stare.

"I saw you leave the house with your belongings and I followed you here."

"You mean you ran on foot?" Loki asked, almost in scorn, for he had taken a cab. He could imagine Thor running as fast as he could, trying to keep up with the vehicle. "Well, in that case, it's nice to know you are going out of your way to say goodbye."

"I did not come to say goodbye."

"Then what—"

To Loki's surprise, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Exactly as Olek did to him once upon a time.

"I came to take you home."

"Home?" Loki cracked a desolate smile. "I can't go back."

"What do you mean? Of course you can come back."

"That's nice of you, Thor, but it's not that simple. You _would _think that way, wouldn't you. You never would understand. You were always the favorite."

Loki backed away, stealing a glance behind him to see that his train had curved around the bend and would be arriving at the station within the minute. Thor's eyes widened.

"What are you talking about, Loki? Father and Mother love us both. I know you were adopted, but that means they chose to raise you as their own. They took you in because they cared about you. Isn't that a sign of love?"

Loki's smile vanished. He slung his bag over one shoulder.

"Yes, someone like you would think so," he muttered.

"So please, come home. Think of Mother. What do you think she'll say when I have to tell her you left? How do you think _she_ will feel?"

"And what of Father?" Loki did not hesitate to retort. "Will he be able to endure his guilty conscience?"

Thor's eyes widened all the more. He was about to say something in reply, but Loki interrupted him as he began to back away. A second time, the train whistle screamed.

"All this time I thought I was as much their son as you are, but I was always living in your shadow. You're the one everybody loves...remember, Thor? You were the one Father showed off and boasted about to all his friends? I was the one in the corner, the one he never talked about. But it all makes sense now, why you were favored all those years. Why you were given the glory and the privileges."

As the train slowed down and pulled into the station, Loki found himself taking small steps back, away from Thor, away from his brother. His only brother. The only person who had tried to stop him from leaving the city.

"As if you even care, anyway!" Loki snapped. "You treated this like a game and told that friend of yours. It's your own foolishness that's forcing me to leave. If you had not said a word I might have stayed, but it's too late for that."

"What are you talking...? Loki?"

Thor seemed shaken, horrified even. Loki looked at him.

"What are you talking about? What did I...?"

"The friend? The friend you told everything to?" Loki pressed.

"No, Loki, I did not tell anyone." Thor was almost at the point of trembling, and had the look as if he had just been shot in the stomach. "Honest, I have not said a word."

It was Loki's turn to seem shaken. He tried to see a mask or lie of some sort hidden in Thor's expression, but of course, there was none to be seen. Thor was a most dreadful liar, and Loki easily beat him in any card game that involved keeping a straight face.

No. He was not lying.

"You didn't? Then, what...?"

_How did that man find out?_

_ Is there someone _else _who is going around telling everybody?_

His mind raced...Stark, Mother, Father, Uriah Stern, any of those men in the synagogue? Who would have done it?

"It doesn't matter, Thor. Whatever happened, I can't stay here any longer. Not now. Eventually, our father and mother will see me as a disgrace to the family, if that wasn't the case all this time..."

"Loki—"

"And so will you. I promise, eventually, so will you. You'll fall to their ideals and dramatizations of human perfection, and you and your kind will be exalted as having the perfect blood, and I will be turned away. You and I both know that day is inevitable. If you had seen what happened today, you would know it's true. I don't intend to stay here and wait for it to arrive." A pang shot through Loki as he backed away. One phrase repeated itself inside him over and over.

_It is true, isn't it. Eventually, they will all despise you._

_ They will all despise you._

"You understand, don't you, Thor. I have to go. How can I look at them, how can I let them look at me and..."

_And know they were lying to me._

As the people huddled to the doors of the passenger cars, a strange cloudiness came over Thor's eyes, and Loki knew he was the one to blame.

"No. Never." Thor's throat was trembling, and he sounded as if he could not breathe.

Loki could not believe what he was seeing. This was _Thor_. This was the boy who tackled a schoolmate three heads taller and won the fight. This was the boy who could throw a hundred-pound sack of flour over his head. Thor was his father's son. He never shed a tear, not for a broken bone or his girl kissing another man. As much as Loki wanted to deny it, guilt pierced him like a glass shard at the pleading in his older brother's eyes.

"Never."

Then, Thor's hands were on Loki's shoulders again, forcing Loki to look up at him.

"Let me go. Thor, my train is here, let me go."

"No, Loki. You listen to me now," Thor said carefully, trying to blink out the clouds from his eyes. "I know I was not always there to protect you. I know there were schoolmates who pushed you around, and I did not defend you so I wouldn't appear weak. I know Father talked more about me, and I rarely spoke up for you. And I'm sorry for that. I am. I'm older now and I see where I went wrong when we were younger. But I promise...right here, and right now...I _will _protect you, brother."

"No..."

But Thor only held him tighter.

"I don't care what the government says. I don't care what Father says. I don't care what my friends or commanding officers or neighbors say. I don't even care what my own heart says is right or wrong. As your older brother, I promise. I _will_ protect you. Whatever people are going to say against you, or whatever happens to you, I will be there by your side. And if you feel you must leave the city, I'll have to come with you."

"You wouldn't," Loki gasped. "You wouldn't leave. Give up everything. Give up the university, your education, your service." He couldn't help but add, for extra effect, "What would Father say when he found out?"

"If you're leaving, I have no choice. I'm not about to let my little brother run off into the big wide world all on his own. Not without me."

Behind Loki, the train made a deep churning sound deep from its mechanical bowels. Soon, it would pull away. And yet, Loki's will could not seem to block itself out of his brother's grasp, whether the restraint had been placed on his body or his spirit to leave this place, or perhaps it was both. He looked into Thor's eyes and, once again, searched for dishonesty. He tried to see the indifference, disgust, or contempt he had seen in the eyes of the crowd that morning, as the soldiers surrounded him and threw him down like an animal. He tried to see the disappointment he saw, time after time, in Olek when he remained indoors to read or play piano rather than mingle with the other boys outside like any Obermeier boy should do.

None of it was there. In their place was something that made Loki unable to move, for it defied everything that had dwelt inside him since he entered the synagogue that day. Perhaps Thor really had made that promise.

Loki found himself releasing the duffel bag and letting it drop to the ground.

"But Thor..." he whispered, "you know it will happen."

"I will never let it happen."

Thor pulled his brother close.

At the same moment, the train began to pull out of the station.

Loki did not let go.


	6. Feuer

_"The Red Space Between Us"_

_Chapter Five: Feuer_

* * *

_"__Where they have burned books,  
they will end in burning human beings."  
-Heinrich Heine_

* * *

_Four weeks later_

_Berlin, Germany – April 8__th__, 1933_

_._

And so, almost one month passed quietly in the calm, oblivious city of Berlin.

Loki continued to work at Mr. Stark's shop, a position which for the majority consisted of running errands, retrieving supplies, sharpening and organizing tools, serving the customers, and keeping the shop in a clean and orderly fashion. The last task, Loki soon realized, was one he didn't mind and at most times even enjoyed. He had never been one to leave messes, unlike a certain older brother who in younger years had been known to track mud across the Persian rug and disturb many a china dish by way of clumsiness. Unlike Thor, Loki preferred having everything in its proper place, as it gave him a sense of calmness and reassurance that nothing was wrong or disturbed.

And nowadays, cleaning up in the shop was one of the ways Loki could keep his hands busy, and thus, leave his thoughts at rest temporarily. He found himself washing the windows, polishing the clocks, and sweeping the floor far more often than was necessary. As long as he was doing something instead of waiting for Mr. Stark's next errand or delivery, he was perfectly all right with his job. Busy hands, now more than ever, were a comfort for Loki. Business became a sure distraction for his tumultuous thoughts, as there were many of them.

When Loki returned home the evening he had been intending to leave Berlin on the train, he told his parents he stayed because he still wanted to go to the school in Vienna. For a little extra convincing, he also threw in a comment about being late for his train as well. And his brother, Thor, knowing how embarrassing it would be for Loki if he told the truth, kept quiet on the subject.

In the four weeks that passed, neither brother spoke of that night again.

As if there was any need to. In regards to the community's knowledge of Loki's being adopted, the response was met with an uncanny silence. Unlike what Loki had anticipated within a few days of the incident on the street, none in the Obermeier's circle of friends and neighbors approached him and questioned if the rumors about him were true. At the few social gatherings the family was obliged to attend, he heard no apparent gossip directed towards him.

At least, none so far that Olek and Frieda had informed him of. For all Loki knew, the whole block could know about it but no one discussed it in his presence, just as they had been instructed to do since Joseph Laskier died nineteen years ago.

Then again, if the Obermeier's had been so keen on keeping it a secret for that entire duration, there was no reason for them to go public with the news so suddenly. Besides, how would some of the most prestigious and esteemed military gentlemen of Olek Obermeier's battalion react when they discovered his younger son was...Jewish? For that matter, what would those in Frieda's circle of friends say? Or Thor's?

All considering, Loki could only come to one conclusion. The young man in the crowd must have been the only one present who recognized Loki as the son of Olek Obermeier. An assumption that possibly followed was that Thor found this classmate of his and ordered him to keep quiet about the matter, which was something Thor was known to carry out to the full extent of his humanity and willpower.

However, even that was not enough.

Such were the very thoughts Loki distracted himself from by keeping his hands busy in the shop.

So Loki and Thor Obermeier did their best to continue in their usual lives, as if nothing had happened that should make all the difference. Loki, as already described, worked as many hours in the Clockwork and Repairs as he could squeeze in, keeping his distance from Mr. Stark especially when the man took to drinking. The watch once belonging to Joseph Laskier remained a secret between him and Uriah Stern, but Loki decided to avoid returning to the synagogue for a while, at least not until he felt less uneasy about the whole thing or he found out who had spread the word about his heritage, if it had not been Thor. He maintained his usual visits of the public library to browse all the volumes of books on botany and Ancient China and Mayan medicine, and was home for only the most necessary amounts of time. Olek and Frieda, thus, saw little of him.

And Thor continued classes at the university, taking basic training with his company as he earned his rank of Lance Corporal, naturally much to the amusement of his father. He continued the habit of postponing his studies until the very last minute in favor of all recreational activities with his comrades, and so, as he had always done, slowly build a positive reputation not just in the university, but among all circles the Obermeier name was familiar with. And when he could, he found his little brother, and asked if he was well. His brother, with his silver-tongue, always convinced his older brother he was all right. He never expected Thor to believe it.

For four silent weeks, life continued as it had for the past nineteen years.

And two brothers pretended such a life was never going to change. Not in the course of the remaining year, and not in the blink of an eye.

But when it was over, the game of pretending had found its checkmate.

* * *

"Turn the radio on," Loki heard a voice say from down the hall. Oddly, it was a voice that did not belong to Mr. Stark.

Loki wiped the oil off his hands, careful to pick up the remnants around and underneath his fingernails. He had just finished cleaning some of Mr. Stark's older tools that had found their way into hiding towards the back of the shelf.

"I'll be out in a minute," Loki hollered back, assuming it was another customer at the front of the shop. He glanced up at the wall clock and was startled to find that it was past eight o'clock in the evening. He had been so preoccupied with his work he had lost track of the time.

"Turn the radio on," the voice repeated.

Loki suddenly recognized the voice belonged to, of course, Uriah Stern himself. Mr. Stark, as well, was at the front of the shop, and must have been speaking to the man. Inside, Loki had to hold back a small groan, as flashing images of the several times he had crossed paths with Uriah during the past few weeks crossed his mind. Although Joseph Laskier's watch was hidden well in his bedroom at home, he glanced around the back of the shop as if it were still here.

_Maybe he wants it back, _he wondered.

After he had torn off his apron and donned his woolen cap, Loki walked down the hall towards the voices. Mr. Stark was fumbling behind the counter, his oily hands slipping over gears, tools, broken down and half completed clocks, receipts and files and useless documents. A fat cigar stuck out of the side of his mouth, and sweat beaded his dark forehead. Uriah Stern turned around and spotted Loki standing in the doorway.

"Loki Laskier, it's you," he said quietly. "I haven't seen you for some time. Is something the matter?"

Loki stammered at first for an answer.

"It's Obermeier. I'm still Loki Obermeier. Is everything all right, Mr. Stern?"

After his near-departure from the city, Loki had not made an effort to make much more conversation with Uriah Stern. Rather than daring to speak to him again, or wait for him in the synagogue, Loki had only noticed him when they happened to cross paths at a certain location in the neighborhood. Even then, it was little more than a polite greeting and brief exchange, the rawest requirements of politeness and common courtesy. Loki saw an emptiness in the older man's eyes, a void that had been left when Joseph Laskier and was now waiting to be filled by his son. It put a strange taste in Loki's mouth that brought him back to the night he was forced to retreat to Mr. Stark's shop for some consolation. A taste he did not favor well.

"I was about to ask you the same thing. Are you well?"

"What is going on?" Loki did not hesitate to ask.

"Well, if good sir Anthony Stark is able to—"

"Found it," Mr. Stark yelped. "I found it." His head popped up from behind the counter. He stood up straight, a dusty, prehistoric object in his arms.

"You found your old radio. Good show," Loki could not help but mutter, refusing to make eye contact with Mr. Stark. Whenever he looked at him he still saw the man who had caused him all the tribulation and suffering recently thrust upon him, but because Loki was also his employee, he could do nothing about it but do his duty and avoid personal conversation as much as possible. Especially when it came to that dreadful nickname.

"If you can, Anthony, would you turn it on already," Uriah said.

"Turn what on?" asked Loki.

"The radio. Please, sit down, Loki. You might want to hear this."

Loki was about to ask what he was going to hear, but held his tongue instead.

With a childish shrug, Mr. Stark dropped the radio on the counter, sending cobwebs and dust bunnies catapulting skyward. Then he flicked the switch on. Loki followed Uriah's motion of pulling up one of the small, scratchy stools sitting around the shop. He braced his palms on his knees and stared down at the floor.

"This had better be important..." he muttered, reminded of how late it was.

Uriah twisted the dial. Through the buzzing, crackling static, a voice came through. It was a voice Loki did not recognize at first, but in due time, he would know all too well the name of the man to whom it belonged.

_ "The era of extreme Jewish intellectualism is now at an end. The breakthrough of the German revolution has again cleared the way on the German path. The future German man will not just be a man of books, but a man of character. It is to this end that we want to educate you."_

A chill ran up Loki's spine at hearing the words. He swallowed and looked up at Uriah, who was leaning towards the radio with a solemn look on his face, as if he were watching his lover being lowered into the grave.

"Who is that?" Loki asked. Then the questions would not stop. "What is he talking about; what's happening? Mr. Stern? Tell me."

"That is Joseph Goebbels. Propaganda Minister of the Nazi Party. I heard he was in Overnplatz giving, well, a speech of some sort, and it would be on this radio station."Uriah paused, looking ready to collapse. Loki rose from his stool.

"You don't look well, Mr. Stern. Do you need anything?"

"No, no, Loki. You do know what is happening, down in Overnplatz, don't you?"

Both Mr. Stark and Loki shook their heads.

"Students...you know, the university students who have been hearing all those so-called, well, scholars and ministers speaking at their schools...have been collecting books from all the libraries. The _un-German_ books. And now they're burning them."

_"As a young person, to already have the courage to face the pitiless glare, to overcome the fear of death, and to regain respect for death...this is the task of this young generation. And thus you do well in this midnight hour to commit to the flames the evil spirit of the past."_

The words, as quiet as they were on the old radio, sounded through the shop with a deep echo that made Loki tremble from head to foot. At the phrase _evil spirit_, he felt his hands clench into fists.

"We can't let them do this," he blurted.

Mr. Stark grumbled,

"Are you saying you want to try and stop them? Go out there with all those brainwashed kids and rescue those poor little books, all by yourself? By all means, be my guest. Go and get yourself clubbed to death for all I care." He waved a disapproving hand, but Loki was not that easily swayed.

"I don't understand. Why would they burn the books?"

As the broadcast continued, Uriah looked up at Loki, suddenly appearing twenty years older.

"Well, when you've been out from under the Obermeier's protective wing for a while longer, you'll understand."

"Who knows?" Mr. Stark chuckled. "I bet your brother, Thor, is over in Overnplatz right now, cheering that Goebbels fellow with his friends..."

That did it. Loki's eyes burned with anger as he glared down at the older man, clenching his jaw.

"My brother would never do that. I know him. He wouldn't! Speak ill of him again and I swear I'll—"

"Hey. Relax, Loke. I was just kidding. All right?" As if to prove his innocence, Mr. Stark widened his eyes and raised his hands.

"That's quite enough, Anthony," Uriah said quietly. He, too, stood up and looked Loki in the eye, rubbing his forehead as if he were in pain. Then he released a long, scratchy sigh. "It is rather late. Perhaps we should all go home. I don't care to hear anymore of this."

And he did not bother to hear the rest.

_"This is a strong, great and symbolic deed...a deed which should document the following for the world to know. Here the intellectual foundation of the November Republicis sinking to the ground, but from this wreckage the phoenix of a new spirit will triumphantly rise!"_

* * *

By the time Loki left the Clockwork and Repairs, the streets of Berlin had gone dark with nightfall. The time of year still beckoned a chill in the air, the cold that clung with stubbornness to winter days while loosening its grip on the approaching summertime. Loki pulled his coat closer, glancing up and down for approaching cars, before hastening his pace as he turned onto the sidewalk that led to home.

What frightened Loki was not how soon he heard the sound, but how _close_ it was. It might as well have been happening in his own front yard.

_Just keep walking, _he thought, only walking faster. _Just keep walking._

What he heard was the _cheering_. He heard the screaming, hollering, whooping crowd of the university students, elated to the point of hypnotized and jubilant to the point of psychotic. He heard a marching band with their blaring trumpets and echoing drums, as the music blasted into the cold night air and paraded along some street along which was gathered the large assembly. He heard the voices of little children as they squealed and chanted the loudest of all. They were voices that rang high above the rest, and they sounded ten times happier than if they had received a hundred Christmas presents, and the voices formed a high-pitched cry that echoed far into the distance, rising even louder than the marching band. And then, Loki heard the sound of fires raging.

As he turned the corner onto one of the city squares, Loki saw it with his own eyes.

A bonfire towering almost twenty feet in height raged in the center of the square. A horde surrounded it, almost all of which were young people. Most could not be any older or younger than him or Thor. Running between their legs, darting here and there, waving the red flag with the black spider, were the countless children.

All, almost in unison, threw a wave of books at the bonfire, which swept them up and devoured the pages in one hellish swallow.

A loud voice rang from a balcony overhead. The crowd turned around to look up at a man dressed in a three-piece black suit. In the reflected light from the fire, Loki could see the same symbol across the man's left arm, a blood-red emblem marked with the same spider. As the man began to speak into his microphone, the crowd raised their hands and cheered even louder. Behind them, the fire raged.

Loki stared, horrified, at the pile of books set aflame. He saw pages turned to crisp and ash, and they were pages filled with poetry, journals, literature, plays, essays. They were words that could never be written twice. They were words made to last centuries for a dozen generations to read for themselves. They could have been words he read in the library only weeks or days ago, and a phrase or two that had spoken true to him and gave him a new sense or way to see the world around him. Here, like scraps, they were burned. Timeless words made history followed with thunderous applause.

"No to decadence and moral corruption!" the man shouted.

The crowd roared. Their eyes glowed furious with passion. Their flesh reflected the fire's light, burning the deep red of demons.

Loki's mouth ran dry as he took a step back. His face felt hot, and his eyes were stinging. The sky was becoming choked with smoke but the celebration only continued, and only more people from the surrounding streets were joining in. All together they waved the flag. Red, black, and white flashed before Loki's eyes in a swarm.

_"The un-German books," _Uriah Stern had said.

Everything inside Loki begged to leave, to escape this terrible execution sight cheered on by students no older than he and even the children. However, his eyes were fixed on the man in the balcony. The man did not seem tall or muscular, and in fact appeared to be rather the opposite, but the crowd screamed for more as if every time he spoke they were filled with new energy. With an exclamation the man pounded the railing and shouted down at the people below.

"Yes to decency and morality in family and state! I consign to the flames the writings of Heinrich Mann, Ernst Gläser, Erich Kästner!"

The cheers were deafening. The marching band picked up with the opening melody to "The Horst Wessel Song", which was met with thousands of voices immediately singing along to the lines. Loki watched a group of children, young and blue-eyed and beaming ear-to-ear, throw armfuls of books into the bonfire as if playing an after-school game in the flowers and leaves.

Worried that he might be spotted, as he was the only one standing on the walk, Loki turned and hastily left the scene. In spite of the heat, he shivered. The man in the balcony continued his speech, prompted over and over again by the crowd of youth.

And Loki knew that they were all in the wrong.

He looked up to a night sky clotted with smoke and ashes, and he prayed to whatever God there was above that he would never know the sound of fire nor the smell of burning books again.

It was a prayer met with silence.

* * *

Thor felt a sharp slap across his back. Rolling his eyes he turned to his friend, classmate, and comrade at the military university.

"Come on, Thor, sing with us!" he cried, and waving two books which he held in his hand, he began to sing along with the rest of the crowd to the tune being played by the band, which marched for what must have been the seventh time past the bonfire. "Flags high, ranks closed, the S.A. marches with silent solid steps..."

"Let go, Oskar. You've been drinking again, haven't you?" Thor said, but managed to fit in a short-lived laugh.

"Of course, of course! Come on, why not? We're celebrating!"

Thor glanced over at his group of friends from the university. He watched as some of them, including Oskar, ran closer to the bonfire to throw more books at it. Others, whom in the spirit of nationalism had dressed in their uniforms that evening, were being greeted with many hugs and kisses from groups of young women walking by. It was, indeed, not hard to notice that at least half of them, in a group that almost reached a dozen by now, were ecstatic on more than just the music or the crowd, and would pay for it in the morning. Thor almost stumbled into a young boy, who was burdened with a load of books so high it towered up to his eyes so that he could scarcely see where he was going. Oskar slapped Thor on the back a second time, turning him deeper into the crowd.

As the band marched in front, blasting away the tune of "The Horst Wessel Song", it seemed to Thor that the young men and women around him only sang all the louder. He felt his ears beginning to ring. When the song led into the chorus, another friend glanced at Thor with a wild look in his eyes, and Thor began to wonder if he was going to be trapped here all night.

"Here, Thor!" cried Oskar, shoving something into Thor's chest, "you can throw my last two."

"The street free for the brown battalions! The street free for the storm troopers!" the people sang.

Thor, instead, looked on ahead at the blazing fire, in which more books were being thrown. He looked down at what Oskar had given to him and realized they, also, were books. The covers had been worn around the edges with age and use, and the first page of one of them had a coffee stain in the corner. As Thor caressed it in those few small seconds, he thought about how many people had read these books before, or how many people had read them and loved them or learned something from it, and now he was going to burn what might have been someone's inspiration and solace.

Then again, Thor had never been much of a book lover, anyway.

They were books that needed to be burned, after all, if what Goebbels and the other speakers had said was true.

He let out a small sigh before arching his arm back and pitching the first book into the flames with all his might, wondering what Loki might say if he found out Thor had burned a book, as Thor knew his little brother was an avid lover of books.

However, as he threw the second book, and was cheered on by Oskar and the others, such a thought seemed to be burned by the flames as well. After all, Thor knew there was no way Loki would ever find out about it.

He half-hardheartedly glanced up at the passing marching band. Somehow, he managed to pull together with his tongue and lips the remaining lines to the chorus of the song.

* * *

_ "For the last time, the call will now be blown.  
For the struggle now we all stand ready.  
Soon will fly Hitler's flags over every street.  
Slavery will last only a short time longer."_

* * *

_ [Historical context:_

_ The events described in this chapter actually did _not _take place in April 1933, but a month later on May __10th, when__ almost 30,000 books deemed "un-German" were burned in thirty-four university towns across Germany, including Berlin. Others also took place on June 21 of the same year. For the sake of my plot I did not want to jump that far ahead into the future. So in this fic I moved the start of the book burnings back one month to ease the transition. __On a similar note, the speech heard on the radio was an actual speech given by Joseph Goebbels on May 10 to a crowd of 40,000 Germans gathered in Opernplatz. The man in the balcony is implied to also be Goebbels, and he spoke those same words to the crowd; I did not make any of it up. __Forgive the historical inaccuracy. But it's fanfiction, isn't it! My fic, my rules.]_

_ By the way I'll be gone for a couple weeks and 90% certain I will have no writing time then, so no idea when the next chapter will be up, probably at least three to four weeks. Sooo sorry :(_


	7. Außenseiter

_"The Red Space Between Us"_

_Chapter Six: Außenseiter_

* * *

A few days had passed since the book burning incident in the Overnplatz. Loki found himself sipping a small cup of black sugarless tea. Mr. Stark sat across from him at the counter with a coffee mixed with a hazardous amount of brandy. The closing of the shop had just ended, and what with so many locals more than happy to waltz in and complain of all the book burnings that had taken place, it had been a long and exhausting day. Mr. Stark sighed loudly, cleared his throat, and stuck out his lower lip as if in contemplation. Loki was startled when the man popped a question, and a most peculiar question at that.

"You have anything planned tonight, Loke?"

"Stop calling me that...and no, I have no plans. Why do you ask?" he snapped.

"Oh, no particular reason." Mr. Stark stared down at his drink for a dangerously long time, then, "I'm going to the synagogue for prayer."

Loki almost had a heart attack, and he choked on his tea.

"_You_...?" he gagged once he had recovered.

"Don't be so modest about it," Mr. Stark grumbled. "I'm going to Shabbat, the Friday evening service. I haven't gone in almost ten years, so I figured now is a good time to start showing up again."

Loki stared dumbfounded. He could not help himself and began to laugh uncontrollably. Mr. Stark just glared at him.

"You're not drunk, are you?" the younger man snickered.

"I was _hoping_, that is, if you have nothing else to do, you would decide to come with me?"

"_Me_? I have no need. You would know everyone there and I would be lucky to know one or two."

"Exactly. You just contradicted your own argument."

"You don't get it, do you?" Loki snapped, clenching his jaw. It was enough for him to take when Mr. Stark refused to pay attention, but when he denied to at least understand him was an intolerable matter. "I have not known of my true heritage but two months, _two months_, and you have known your whole life. Pretending we're the same is a game for children. If I go, they'll see me as an outsider trying to fit in."

"Well...you have to start sometime."

"That is easy for you to say."

_What's gotten into him, anyway? _Loki wondered with exasperation. _One minute he's his old self barking about this and that, and now he wants to go to, what it's called, Shabbat? He's either drunk or feels his time is almost up._

Mr. Stark did not need long to come up with an answer. In fact, he never provided himself with such time, even when it was needed.

"You want to know what I think?"

"I'm not so sure," Loki muttered.

"I think you're just being a little wuss."

Loki's insides groaned.

"What has you so compelled to attend? Besides, I thought it was you who said all you do is celebrate the Passover," he demanded.

"Well, first of all..." said Mr. Stark, before taking a thirsty and thoughtful swig from his drink and wiping the remnants onto the back of his hand with a smack of the lips, "I haven't even shown up in a long time. Uriah Stern? It was because of _you_ that man showed up in my shop for the first time in years. Word has been getting around about your working in my shop, so the least I can do is make an appearance to set any rumors straight. And also, Uriah's niece from Munich is back." He paused with dramatic emphasis, as Loki stared on in a disgusted stupor. "Now that is a real doll. _Sie hat Holz vor der Hütte_..."

"Oh, dear Lord..." Loki groaned, covering his face with his hands as his cheeks reddened to the hue of a tomato. "At least I now know why you haven't gone in ten years."

* * *

More people than Loki had been expecting were gathered inside the synagogue by the time they arrived later that evening. As the pair walked up the steps, Loki stole a glance back down the familiar street. An old memory came back of walking to school with his brother on one of thousands of occasions.

_"Have you not heard some of the things they say about the Jews? I heard they do nothing but lie and steal."_

Thor had only been fifteen years of age when he had said it, and not as informed as he was now. Still, the words stuck to Loki's memory. Now they returned as a shadow, an echo of an old past when he could not have cared less about such words. A sweetness that faded away with the sands of time.

He turned around and followed Mr. Stark inside. He was once again struck with a strange feeling as he entered the building he had walked by without so much as a glance for all those years. Inside, an impressive crowd had gathered for the Shabbat. Loki could barely hear so much as a whisper. He quickly took off his cap and coat and draped them over one arm. As he followed Mr. Stark up the aisle, it did not take Loki long to notice that many of the gentleman already seated were dressed in formal Jewish clothing. Attire, of course, that Loki all but lacked. In fact, up until that very moment, he had had no idea what formal Jewish clothing looked like at all. Even Mr. Stark had his own _kippah_ to wear. Loki, unlike the rest, had nothing.

He stared down at the carpeted floor, unable to lift his head. A large lump formed in his throat. Mr. Stark sat down in one of the middle pews, and Loki took the vacant spot in front of him, dreading the thought of sitting next to him no matter the duration of the service.

Long before the service began Loki felt out of place in that synagogue, like a spy among innocents, a monster among angels. Anyone could take a quick glance at him to notice he had not come knowing what to expect or how to present himself, and it would be a safe assumption to make that it was his first time attending a Jewish service at all, which of course was correct.

_This was a mistake, _he thought.

The longer the service dragged on, the more the thought weighed heavily on Loki's mind. Discomfort overcame his senses and he could not focus on what was going on, only on how much he stood out in those moments.

It was Stark's fault. It was _all _Stark's fault. He forced Loki to come in the first place, which now seemed to be for no purpose at all other than to watch Loki's level of uneasiness increase as the service went on. Loki thought of everything Stark had supposedly done for him since he learned the truth about his past—he had been allowed to stay at the shop until matters cooled down at home, he fixed Joseph Laskier's watch, and he kept Loki's attempted departure a secret. But all of that had taken place two months ago, and the only thing Stark had done for the rest of that time was allow Loki to keep his job, which was trivial in light of the harm he had caused.

_I can't take this anymore, _Loki thought. He gritted his teeth and clenched one hand into a fist, his eyes fixed on the toes of his shoes. _See if I do anything for him again. All he does is keep getting me into situations I regret._

As Loki closed his eyes, wishing the seconds would tick by much faster, he picked up a faint but recognizable smell. Perhaps it was simply a hallucination. A figment from his imagination that lingered a few days into the past. But what he smelled was the burning books.

When it was quiet, as it was right then, Loki could still hear the fire crackling, the music blaring, the crowd cheering. He could still see smoke filling the sky as ashes rained down over the pavement.

He opened his eyes, and the memories faded away. Much like the pages of those very books.

* * *

Loki thought it would last an eternity, but the prayer service was over within the hour. As those assembled rose and began to file out, Loki noticed many glancing over at him and his attire. Luckily, however, few glances were lingering. Before Loki could slip out by himself, Mr. Stark's hand clamped down on his shoulder. Loki winced as he realized he had no choice but to be seen with Stark as they were leaving.

Perhaps, Loki hoped, few people would recognize Mr. Stark as he had not even attended service for ten years. On the other hand, a reputation such as his rarely went unnoticed. Walking in front of Mr. Stark, Loki made his way down the aisle as quickly as he could.

"Thanks for the invitation, Mr. Stark, but I don't consider myself religious," Loki hissed at him. He expected a snappy remark or a grunt, as the usual, but instead he felt Mr. Stark guide him along back. In one of the back corners of the synagogue a small group was gathered, which consisted of several older men. As Loki looked up he caught the figure of Uriah Stern in the group, and resisted Mr. Stark's urgings.

"Hold your horses, Loke," he said.

"I. Am not. A child."

What Loki heard next made the words freeze on his tongue.

"My brother ran a bookstore in Hamburg. The last telegram I got from him says he's out of business. Thanks to all the ruckus they started the other week," one of the men was grumbling. His wife, standing by his side, nodded with him.

Another gentleman spoke up, one who stood right next to Uriah Stern.

"Over one hundred Jewish journalists were put out of work in one week," he said sternly.

Loki felt Mr. Stark's prickly whiskers tickle his ear as the man spoke.

"That is Nathaniel Stern, Uriah's little boy. He's a few years older than your brother."

The second glance at the gentleman revealed to Loki the similarities between the two men. The same olive skin, narrow nose shape, and shadowed eyes were the most obvious the longer he looked. It also occurred to Loki that at some point this Nathaniel Stern may have been a classmate of his in school, but the possibility only stood a slight chance, yet still, it remained.

A third man spoke up in the small huddled group. A head higher than anyone else gathered, he wore a neatly fitting coat over his outfit, and his calm, weathered face had a sort of perpetual sneer to it as if he were constantly chuckling to himself. He also had a distinctive Polish sprinkle in his native dialect

"I apologize for I have a hard time believing that," he said. "There are over half a million of us in the country. Four percent of Berlin's population alone. Small numbers or not even the far less significant minorities covering less than one percent, are just as important to the city's needs. When one thinks of it that way, we are a necessary contribution to society. I simply don't see what benefit the Nazi Party would gain in taking away our jobs or our professions."

The rest of the men looked up at him, who was the tallest and best-dressed of them all, and were silent. Fortunately for Loki and Stark, it was not so silent that anyone could hear when one whispered to the other,

"And that fellow is Avner Kaufman. Jewish by blood, but, as for his religious practices, that's another story. One of the wealthiest merchants in the city."

"Yes, I've met him before," Loki whispered back. "I shook his hand one year ago at the wedding of some army general's daughter. Mr. Kaufman is proud to have never touched alcohol." He had to resist the temptation to steal a wavering glance at Mr. Stark's reaction that.

"Well, Avner, would you say the same if you had been a journalist?" Nathaniel Stern asked.

His proposal was met by a short-lived fit of laughter from the other gentlemen. Loki watched Mr. Avner Kaufman's lips tighten, and the wrinkles curled around his eyes and jaw. Meanwhile, the rest of those in the synagogue filed outside and deep into the night.

"All right, then, don't take me seriously. But I meet with the high society of Berlin daily, and I know for a fact that the council, the Nazi Party, have every intention of igniting a new era of Germany. This is the time to start over and begin anew."

It was what Mr. Avner Kaufman said next that began to stir something in Loki. A deep, smoldering indignation that he could not explain. Not in the year 1933, at least.

"Perhaps, when one thinks about it," the man said, "it is not so bad that these book burnings are taking place around the colleges. A new Germany...meaning, freedom from the shackles of the past and the weight of outside influences...is what the people of this country want. And when the people get what they want their morale will boost. The economy could take a turn for the better. More jobs could be open; the schools improved, society refined. All they want is to make the national heritage pure again. Many of my contemporaries hesitant to believe that that is a bad thing at this point in time, and I would have to agree with them. So letting them burn the 'un-German' books will do everyone good in the long run, if we are patient. It may even be a good thing..."

_That does it...!_

Without thinking twice of it, Loki pulled away from Mr. Stark's grasp and walked straight into the heart of the group. In one split moment he forgot all else that was on his mind, and he could not catch the words before they were out of his mouth.

"Mr. Kaufman, the only kind of person who would call burning books a decent act for society is the idiot who doesn't even know how to read."

Had he glanced back at Mr. Stark, he would have seen a most vulgar word mouthed on the man's lips.

Suddenly, Loki realized all eyes were fixed on him. He cleared his throat. He felt his face begin to redden. Somebody coughed nervously.

"And...who might you be?" asked Mr. Avner Kaufman. His almond ocean eyes tilted downward and glared down at the younger, skinnier, smaller figure.

_How do I get myself into these situations... _Loki wondered.

He heard Uriah Stern raise his voice, much to his relief that he did not have to stand for himself in complete solitude.

"He is the son of Joseph Laskier."

"Impossible," Avner Kaufman snorted. "That poor two-faced Laskier never had a son."

Loki chomped down on his tongue. He was not going to make the same mistake twice in one night. He refused.

_How dare he...how dare he say that about..._

"That will be quite enough out of you, Avner," Uriah Stern snapped.

Avner Kaufman crossed his arms and shook his head, as if in subtle disappointment.

"Hmm. No. No. I don't believe you. A bastard like Laskier would have sooner impregnated his own servant girl and called the mongrel his son, at best."

Loki pounced forward, looking the taller man right in the eye.

"My father was _not_ a bastard, you mewling quim!"

_Shit._

He snapped his jaw shut.

_Shit. Wrong thing to say._

Avner Kaufman, wide-eyed and jaw slack, glared down at Loki like a hawk on a crippled mouse.

"What did you call me, boy?" he hissed.

_Shit, shit...I am never reading Thor's Tijuana bibles again._

Loki's mouth suddenly ran dry, when he heard someone stand up from behind him. Someone roughly patted him on the shoulder.

"Oh, don't mind the lad, gentlemen. Don't worry about a thing. The little fellow probably just isn't feeling all that hot. Having to hang around a place like this for so long, you really can't blame him, after all. He's under me, you see. I got this."

Loki inwardly groaned. It was only getting worse by the second, and Mr. Stark was not helping.

"_Under you_? What are you, my legal guardian?" he whispered to Mr. Stark.

"Shush."

"Are you Mr. Anthony Stark?" Avner Kaufman asked, turning his nose up.

"Ah, yep, that's my name, last time I checked the books."

"And you are proposing that you are well aware of the genealogical history of the Laskier family, are you?"

"Oh, and I'm sure you're the scholarly expert on the guy," Mr. Stark said.

"I am sure I would know more than an old washed-up drunk who doesn't know how to wind a clock back."

Loki had never seen someone shut up Mr. Stark so quickly. Not for long, of course.

"Did...did you just say I can't wind a clock back?"

"Of all the offenses, you take that one most harshly, do you?"

"You said I can't wind a clock back...!"

And suddenly, Loki was the one who had to grab Mr. Stark so the man wouldn't jump forward into the small crowd. Avner Kaufman looked on, seeming almost amused at Mr. Stark's rage.

Loki could not help but begin to wonder just what sort of reputation Mr. Stark's younger days had established in the community. In all honesty, he knew next to nothing on the matter. Had Mr. Stark been notorious for wooing the now middle-aged daughters of these men, walked into morning prayer drunker than a sailor on Saturday night, inventing quirky, peculiar, and sometimes even cryptic or unorthodox clock designs? Or was it that perpetual stink of whiskey, ale, wood chips, rust, and oil constantly lingering within his shop that was enough to drive these men of higher class and status away from his doors?

To Loki's relief, Uriah Stern spoke up again.

"Listen, all of you, I am certain. I know Loki and he is indeed the legitimate son of Joseph Laskier. He is to be respected by all of you."

All the pairs of eyes upon Loki felt like a heavy, crushing weight.

But Mr. Avner Kaufman was not finished.

"And what reason have we to listen to his opinion? There was no record of Laskier ever having children. He was nothing but a common thief who failed at every business he tried and took huge loans from people he never intended to pay back..."

Loki gasped, ears burning.

"That's enough!" Uriah bellowed.

"...who died leaving his now-deceased, honest-working brother swallowed in debt until he was forced down to the very same level of poverty and was taken by illness? If you really are the son of such a man, disappeared for these twenty years and randomly coming back to claim your heritage, what makes you think we can trust your word?"

Mr. Stark's hand returned to Loki's shoulder. Loki wished he wouldn't. Rage boiled inside him at the terrible indignity of how the man had dared to describe Joseph Laskier. That was too much for him to take.

"Mr. Kaufman, I think you have said plenty for tonight," an older man said. He was in fact one of the oldest present, and could have very well passed for being Avner Kaufman's father, if not an older brother. "But I would take heed at what choice of words you use in the house of God."

It was those words that at least seemed to quiet him down. Avner Kaufman's gaze dropped steadily downward, as did the attention of the group in correspondence. Once the old man had said his few but powerful words, the gentlemen gathered began to drift apart. The tight-knit circle disintegrated in a matter of only several seconds. It was as if they had come to watch a verbal fight in the hypothetical boxing ring, and Mr. Avner Kaufman was the reigning champion, which now made Loki the rising underdog contender. Of course, that was _exactly _the sort of impression he wanted to leave on the local Jewish community on his first night attending the evening prayer. As the old man also left, he shuffled beside Loki just long enough to say,

"Watch your mouth too, young man. We know where you read that from."

Loki's face only reddened all the more. By that time all the men had left except for himself, Mr. Stark, and Uriah and Nathaniel Stern. Uriah was shaking his head. He looked up at the pair as his son got their coats.

"I—I'm very sorry, Loki. Avner is..."

"It's all right," Loki said quickly.

When he finally turned away and left, refusing to wait for Mr. Stark, he began to tremble. From his core to his fingertips he felt shaken by the evening's events. Every one of them. Feeling like an outsider during the Shabbat. Then to be talked down to—disgraced, humiliated—by a man well known in the same prestigious community the Obermeier family was connected to, nonetheless. And in front of people who would sooner see him as a complete stranger. If he was no longer a stranger now, he was merely someone attempting to go by a deceased name.

But for what purpose? he wondered. Why should Avner Kaufman make such an accusation against him? What was the point of pretending to be Joseph Laskier's son if there was no financial gain from it?

And most importantly, what would happen if those men found out that he had been adopted instead?

His mind was full of questions, but Loki had anything but an appetite for answers. The last thing he wanted was to think on the past, the name of Laskier, and the unbearable burden it had become on him, mind and soul equally.

Most of all, he did not want to think about what Avner Kaufman had said about the book burnings. Somehow, as if by instinct or second nature, he knew the man had been wrong. Because it never ended with 'just book burnings', did it?

* * *

There was a change in the Obermeier house the moment Loki opened the door and stepped inside. Olek was in his study room, as could be expected. Frieda was bidding goodnight to the delivery boy, a strapping young lad with clean blonde hair and a tiny mouth that twitched with pride as he handed her the package. Then, once Frieda had paid him his earnings for the delivery, the boy disappeared into the dark.

As quietly as possible, Loki took off his hat and coat and set them in their usual places. He did not feel to be in a talking mood to much of anybody. After the day's events there was far too much on his mind for him to think about anything else, and busying his hands sounded far more appealing.

By second nature, he found himself drifting to the family parlor, around the bend, and to the far end of the room where stood the black grand piano. Its surface shone with a recent polishing so much so that he could see the reflection of his hand as it hovered over the top. The seat cushion was a deep velvet green, matching the rug on which the piano stood. He walked around and sat down. For a while his gaze was fixed on the keys, darting between black and white, and wondering what music he would hear if he began to play. Would his hands choose a Mozart, a Vivaldi? Or resort to one of the contemporaries like Irving Berlin or George Gershwin?

Without a second thought to it, his fingers landed on top of the keys and his left foot rested on the pedal. Loki closed his eyes, took in a deep breath, and began to play. It was a song written over a decade before but still popular in Germany, and one he had been playing for several years until he had it completely memorized. Immediately, the sound of a sweet melody filled the parlor, a tune haunting in its old familiarity yet soothing in its simplistic song. While the original was supposed to have a lighthearted, giddy beat to dance to, Loki slowed it down to a remorseful love song reminiscent of the blues. As it progressed from the first verse into the chorus, the sound echoed throughout the room and down the halls of that big old house, until it was so subtle yet so passionate in its mournful sentimentality that it broke your heart just to hear it in the distance and it brought a tear to your eye from the beauty of it all.

Softly, and slowly, Loki sang a few quiet lyrics of the song to himself.

_"Heaven, Vienna mine,_

_Laughter and music and stars that shine..."_

Transitioning out of the chorus back into the verse, Loki opened his eyes. He tried to think of how his life may be different right now had his father permitted him to go to the music school. Right in that city, Vienna. If he had, would Loki have as much of a successful life at the school as Thor did at his own? Would he already be composing his own music? And would he even know if he was adopted?

Each question ached like a stab to the heart, for he very well knew all the answers.

_"Wonderful city where I belong,_

_To you I sing my song."_

The melody carried on for a few lines more. Then Loki let it fade out into silence once again. He sighed. Playing his piano again had been relaxing, and much needed.

He was about to play another piece when he saw movement from the corner of his eye. When he looked up he saw Frieda standing at the other end of the room.

"Is that your favorite song?" she asked.

Loki looked up at her and forced a smile.

"Yes. But, as odds would have it, Father does not take kindly to it much."

"You play it wonderfully," Frieda said, smiling. Then, "Where were you tonight?"

"Mr. Stark was as drunk as a fish. I took him home," he lied. He could not imagine what his parents, both devout Lutherans, would say if they found out he had been to a Jewish service. Despite her deep spiritual beliefs, Frieda would probably be the more forgiving of the matter, but he didn't want to risk it.

"Is that usual for him? Maybe it would be best for you to find work elsewhere. I don't want you working for someone like that."

Loki sighed. He was almost relieved someone had finally proposed the question other than himself.

"Of course, Mother, but it's not that simple. Mr. Stark was the one who told me the truth in the first place. His drunkenness leaves him reckless. He could be going around telling it to everyone else around, and that's the last thing that can happen."

"What does that have to do with you?"

"It has everything to do with me. If I work at his shop and keep an eye on him both when he is sober and drunk...there will be a smaller chance of the same thing happening again. I have to make sure of that."

She smiled sadly.

"Loki, my dear boy, you're growing up much too fast."

He swallowed hard, for he knew what she had really meant.

"Mother, I...I'll be all right."

"I'm so sorry," Frieda went on. "I am so sorry for everything that has happened...because of your father and because of me."

"I'll be all right, Mother. I promise," he lied again.

"No, please listen. I wanted you to know the truth from the start, Loki. I wanted you to always know who you really were."

Loki's forced smile vanished, and he pursed his lips.

"And who am I?" he asked quietly.

"You're our adopted son. And we love you as much as your brother. It doesn't change anything."

He wanted to hear her say it. That Father had forced her not to tell him, that she had bargained and pleaded with him so Loki would be raised knowing the truth, that if he had listened to her the two brothers may have grown up leading a whole different life. How sweet those words would have sounded. But when Loki looked back up at her, he saw that his mother was terribly exhausted. She was holding herself together emotionally, but pushing her too far could break her down. Her eyes spoke love but sadness.

Tonight had been full of enough drama as it was, anyway. And these were the things he wanted out of his mind. For once in the past two long months, he just wanted to be the Obermeier son who read books and played the piano, and nothing more.

So instead, he forced the smile back on and kissed his mother's forehead.

"I understand. It's all right, I understand." He kissed her a second time, and retired to his room before another word could be spoken, hoping he would never have to lie to her again.

* * *

_Author's Note:_

_First, I am so, soooo sorry that this chapter came so late! I was gone for a while and a lot of stuff got in the way, plus the first draft of the chapter was a big mess. But after this expect chapters to be updated every other week again! Thank you for being so patient with me!_

_The plot thickens! And we're still only in 1933!_

_For most of the remaining chapters I'm going to have some of the context and material focused on the Jewish culture of 1930's Germany. And while I can say I have done all the research I can until I feel comfortable enough writing about it, I can't say I have ever been fully immersed in the Jewish culture, and I am still an amateur. So if you notice _any_ inconsistencies or are offended by something I did not intend, PLEASE don't hesitate to let me know about it in a kind, considerate PM, and I will do what I can to fix it._

_And if you don't know what a Tijuana bible is...well...let's just say it's the modern-day equivalent of Penthouse or Playboy magazines in the form of comic strips. Our grandparents' Internet porn, minus the Internet bit. Because I can totally imagine Thor having a stash of those hidden in his room that Loki "accidentally" stumbled upon one day, and Thor promised to share them as long as Loki didn't tell their parents._

_Please review! It is very helpful to a writer to receive suggestions, criticisms, and encouragement!_


	8. Dieser Wahnsinnige Alte Mann

_"The Red Space Between Us"_

_Chapter Seven: Dieser Wahnsinnige Alte Mann_

* * *

_April 22__nd__ , 1933_

_._

Loki, with a repressed sigh, folded his newspaper shut and set it down on the breakfast table. He added two more scoops of sugar into his tea, but it still tasted bitter.

Dawn was just beginning to rise upon the Obermeier household, and in the first hours of daylight the house was very quiet. It was the perfect opportunity to spend some time alone and in peace. Otherwise, during the day there was always the chance of guests coming to call, or work to be done around the house, and finding a relaxing place was not as easy.

Thus, it was one of Loki's habits to be the first to get up. He found out in his earlier teenage years that if he was dressed and downstairs for breakfast by five o'clock in the morning he had a two full hours to himself, which meant that he could do plenty of studying in that time. It also meant that he had more time for piano practice in the afternoons after school, which left his evenings completely open for whatever he wanted to do. This method, however much Loki tried to persuade him, never settled too well for his brother. Thor, who as a teenager would spend long hours doing outside activities, would be too exhausted to move as early as five o'clock, and scarcely got up with but ten minutes before leaving for school. As a result, Thor would have less time to study, which goes without mentioning household chores and accompanying their parents to the social gatherings the Obermeier's were so renowned for attending and did not want their sons to be excluded from. However, for the remainder of their years attending the public school, it went just fine for Loki to have the house to himself for that period of the day.

This is the exact reason why Loki nearly jumped out of his seat when he heard footsteps coming from the dining hall into the kitchen, and they sounded very much like Thor's. As the footsteps drew closer, Loki quickly spread a piece of butter on his biscuit and took a bite.

Thor stepped into the kitchen buttoning up his shirt, his hair unkempt and his shoelaces untied. Loki, still recovering from the startle, watched Thor sit down and helped himself to the plate of biscuits in the middle of the kitchen table. He chewed his food thoughtfully as he set his cup of tea on the saucer.

"Can I read the paper?" Thor asked.

Loki passed the folded newspaper across the table.

"You're up a bit earlier than usual," he remarked.

"I had a bit of trouble sleeping last night. There was something going on downtown when I left the campus."

"Really. What was it?" Loki asked curtly, although he was almost positive he already knew.

Thor sighed loudly and grabbed the saucer, dumping a load of jelly on his biscuit. Loki held back a cringe thinking of how many biscuits he could have used that same amount of jelly on.

"It was...you know, the usual...what the college students are doing much of nowadays." Thor paused; the only sound in the room was the water boiling on the stove. "They were burning a few books. Not many, so it wasn't like the first one in the city. Just a couple dozen or so, maybe a few more. And that man gave another speech in the square."

"Who, Goebbels?"

"Yes, that's his name...how did you know?"

"I heard him on the radio, and at one of the burnings."

"Oh..."

"I'm still not buying that as a reason you're violating your regular sleeping habits. Don't tell me you're literally going to study for mid-term exams this year..." Loki's mouth curved into a playful smile.

"Ha, ha. Actually, there is nothing going on at the university today...just some guest speaker is going to talk about the Strength and Joy program or other. It sounded downright dull to me, so I left."

"Strength _through _Joy," Loki corrected. "I read about it in this morning's paper." The Strength Through Joy program, as it was, was intended to make middle-class leisure activities available to the masses. According to the article, ship cruises, holidays, and concerts and theatre would be offered to anyone who joined the program. Of course what with how the author had worded it, Loki had only detected words of exuberant, almost childlike praise for the program, and stopped reading it halfway through without wanting to read much else.

"It's a Saturday, you know," said Thor.

"So...?"

"Max Schmeling is in town tonight."

"The boxer Schmeling?"

"Come now, Loki, there is only _one _Schmeling. He just knocked out Joe Louis in the United States. My friend Oskar is in the gambling business and knows who to put bets on this season. We could make a small fortune."

"And you know how much I _adore_ boxing..." Loki groaned.

"Oh, come on, just this once. You'll love it." Thor punched the air in a double strike.

"Watching men turn into punching bags and ground meat...most entertaining..." Loki took another sip of tea, hiding the snicker. Thor grinned. Both of them, of course, were recalling an old memory of the one and only time Thor had taken his little brother to a boxing match while they were in their early teen years, and how the mere sight and smell of blood had made Loki lose his supper in a most embarrassing way for both of them. Thor continued sneaking off to watch the fights when he had the chance, but Loki stopped having anything to do with the sport and vowed never to return.

As Loki drank down the last of his tea and Thor reached for the plate of cooked ham slices, a knock sounded at the front door. Loki smirked, snatching another biscuit.

"I bet it's a telegram. Race you." In a flash, Loki jumped up and bolted for the door.

Thor shoved a slice of ham into his mouth. He yanked his chair back and tried to grab his brother to slow him down. In his effort, he stumbled and almost fell flat on his face, but quickly got back to his feet. By then, Loki was already halfway to the door and laughing to himself. Thor, however, did not take long to catch up.

Loki opened the door to see the delivery boy holding a telegram. He took off his cap and fixed a lock of bright blonde hair as he held out the envelope.

"Telegram for you, Loki, sir," he said stoutly.

"Thank you, Engel." Loki, still smiling to himself, took the telegram from the boy.

Engel Dasanderer, otherwise known as Engel, was a local delivery boy who ran errands for the entire block, and had been serving the Obermeier family since he was but a lad of six or seven The lad could not have been more than twelve years of age. There were stories that said Engel lived at an orphanage, but no one bothered to ask him, and so it remained a mere rumor. Frieda especially took a liking to the lad, and regularly offered him some cakes or hot chocolate if they had been recently made.

And Engel had never been known to decline a kind offer.

Thor shoved his brother to the side and peered down at the lad with an enthusiastic grin.

"Anything for me today, by any chance?"

"Just my services, _mein Herr_."

"Then would you do me the favor of getting us two tickets to the fight tonight?"

Engel beamed ear-to-ear.

"You're going to see Max Schmeling knock that _Weichei_ back to Poland?"

"Of course we are! You know where to find tickets at the lowest price? Oh, and don't get us seats too close."

"Sure, I can. I know my place around the market. I'll find tickets for less than half price, and throw in some beer coupons for free."

"Wonderful, Engel. Bring them back here by tonight and I'll pay you handsomely. Might even include a tip for you, too," Thor said with a wink of trust.

"Well, I've never been known to decline a kind offer." Engel donned his cap before turning and racing off the porch to his next stop. Thor watched him go for a moment, then looked down at the telegram Loki was holding.

"Well, tell me. Who is it from?"

"It doesn't matter. I'll read it later," Loki sighed, and he left the telegram on the end-table closest to the front door. This early in the morning, he was not in the mood for opening envelopes and reading through mail.

Thor was about to run back to the kitchen to finish his breakfast. Loki grabbed his coat and pulled it on.

"I'm going out. I have a few errands to make today," he said. Then, after thinking it over for a moment until he decided Thor's company couldn't be the worst thing to have, he asked, "Care to join me?"

"Of course. Just let me grab another biscuit. Now don't you dare move." Thor was about to turn around and bolt back to the kitchen. Before he moved another inch, however, he turned around.

"Yes?" asked Loki.

"I would very much enjoy your company if you came with me to the boxing match tonight."

Loki sighed again.

"I'll think about it," he answered, which both he and his brother knew was a solid No.

* * *

When the two brothers left and went out for their walk, it was closing in on six o'clock. The streets were swept clean and still calm with early morning. The only passerby were the first folk of the city to rise up and go about their daily tasks.

"If you're still thinking about sports," Loki said, "there's a horse race in Hamburg at noon. We could catch the train there and back and no one will even notice we left."

Thor gaped and cleared his throat.

"Since when were _you _into horse-racing?"

"Since that one night you had Oskar over to call. He had a few too many helpings to Father's wine storage. He told me everything about the gambling business. He knows all about the horses, too. It should be...quite fun. You mentioned a _small fortune_? We could make a month's wages in a day at the track."

"But what about—"

"And I already scored two tickets yesterday from Engel. Smart lad knows his way around."

Thor kicked a pebble out into the street and shoved his hands into his pockets.

"A gentleman's game...Mother always loved going to the races, but I don't recall Father being too fond of them...fine, it's a deal. I go with you to Hamburg, and you're coming to the fight."

"And you knock that _Weichei_ back to Poland, Max Schmeling..." Loki muttered. He reached into his front coat pocket to find his green woolen cap.

To his shock, it wasn't there. He searched the other pocket. Still not there. "_Damn_. I must have left my hat at Stark's shop."

"Are you sure you don't have another one?"

"No. And if I know Stark, he'll find it and claim it as his own. Just my luck. Let's run on down and get it."

"Come on...!"

"We'll be fast, I promise. It's just a couple blocks down this way."

As Thor followed Loki around the bend toward the Clockwork and Repairs, he did not hesitate to let out a long sigh of dread and despair. Loki rolled his eyes. He knew Thor still harbored some negative intuitions about Mr. Stark, which were probably from both their father's influence and Loki's negative experience that had come about because of the man. However, Loki also knew that if he wanted to get on Mr. Stark's good side and keep him quiet, he could not have his entire family against him.

Down two blocks and around another corner was Mr. Stark's shop. Loki walked on ahead of Thor, wanting to get this quick stop over with. He certainly did not want to stay for long.

What Loki saw next made him stop dead in his tracks. He stood, petrified, in front of the Clockwork and Repairs.

Thor noticed his brother staring, and ran to catch up with him.

"What's the matter?" he asked. Then he saw it as well.

The front window of the shop had been destroyed. Glass shards littered the walk in a constellation of millions of sharp, glimmering pieces. The door was wide open, and the lock had been broken.

"Oh, no," Loki whispered.

He ran inside, dreading what he would find.

At least a fifth of all the clocks on Mr. Stark's walls, possibly more, were gone. They had vanished without a trace, save for the papers and folders containing outlines and instruction manuals that had been scattered across the floor. Several glass clock faces had been broken or shattered. Stark's latest project, a child's cuckoo clock with a Noah's ark complete with trumpeting elephants and moving waves, had been smashed onto the floor. Its gears, springs, nails, and half-completed animals had been dashed to pieces. Worse yet, Mr. Stark's pride and joy that was the stately mahogany grandfather clock in the corner had been toppled over. The wood on its front was horribly scratched beyond any reasonable repair. Worst of all was the cash register had been left open, and when Loki walked around the counter to look inside he saw over half of the money inside was gone as well.

He felt sick to the stomach.

Thor followed Loki inside. He froze in the doorway, staring at the scene. His mouth was hung open and his eyes widening.

"What happened here...?" he whispered.

"Oh, dear god...maybe they hurt the poor bastard. Maybe they killed him."

"What? How could they? That is horrible."

"Not so loud..."

Loki stuck his foot in a pile of papers, glancing at the endless lists of numbers and dates inscribed by hand. Meanwhile, his brother followed behind and began muttering to himself.

"Well, I don't care if they're still here or not. I'm not afraid. You know I could take on all of them with one hand behind my—"

"You do know who did this, don't you?"

Thor bit his lower lip. Then he said,

"Sturmabteilung."

"Who else would have done this?"

Sturmabteilung. Adolf Hitler's so-called Nazi Brownshirts. A group of more than ten thousand stormtroopers who acted as the Nazi Party's personal 'police force'. They were above the law, which meant not even the regular police could stop them from doing anything. In the older days, a time when Loki and Thor were still young boys, the Sturmabteilung served as the iron fist of the Nazi Party, igniting a fire of passion and fear in the hearts of the German people. Now, it was their duty to keep it aflame. Such opportunity opened wide the doors for young men who wanted to destroy the world and be rewarded for doing it.

He swallowed and then called out.

"Stark? It's me, Loki." He paused. "Are you in here? Are you all right?"

There was no reply.

"They could have taken him away by now. He doesn't know how to keep his damned mouth shut..."

"I hope he was not gravely hurt."

"Just one word or one remark and they would've finished him off. He would have had it coming, anyway." He was about to add a comment about how he would know such a fact from experience, remembering when he talked down the soldiers and was almost hurt as a consequence, but decided against it. He did not want Thor to know about that.

A dreadful silence filled the old shop. Not the sort of pleasant tranquility he was so fond of at five o'clock in the morning, but of the absence of sounds that should be present, a thousand chimes and ticks muted and never to be heard again. It was a silence that, in due time, Loki would learn to fear and dread more than any police whistle or fire crackling or marching steps. For absence is indeed the worst sound of all. Dark, the absence of light. Despair, the absence of hope. Death, the absence of life.

"I wonder if they are doing the same to all the others," he wondered aloud.

"Other what?"

"Jewish stores. Don't be such an idiot, Thor. Jewish stores. Political opponents from Nuremberg, too; what about their homes and their families?"

"Father is going to have some say about this. Why, it is no good for the city's economy if they are going to start looting stores without reason. It's absolutely absurd."

Loki sighed and picked up the damanged clock lying on the floor, and gently set it back on the counter to be repaired later, if that were possible.

"Certainly...Father disapproving of the Party's endeavors...that would be a first."

"Come on, Loki. If he's still here, we have to find him. He could be in deep trouble."

At the thought of what sort of physical harm could have been done to Stark, a tingle of nausea crept into the pit of Loki's stomach. As many times as he had been tempted to punch his employer in the nose to knock some sense into him at times, Loki dreaded having to find him seriously injured or in a traumatized state. He did not want to see what a band of young, drunken men armed with rifles, batons, and beer could do to someone older, weaker, and with no hesitation to state a dangerous opinion. He did not want to see at all.

Suddenly, a voice rang out from the end of the hall.

"Is that you, Loke?"

Loki jumped and looked up. The hallway which led to Mr. Stark's personal living quarters was darkened, and he could not see anyone in there. There were no traces of damage or fabric in sight. In spite of the moment, the embarrassing nickname made him red in the face again.

"It's me," he said. "Don't worry, I'm coming." Without another thought, Loki ran down the hallway, Thor close behind.

"_Loke_...? I've never heard that one."

"Oh, shut up." Loki opened the nearest door that led to Stark's bedroom. Once he looked inside, he let out a small gasp from both alarm and relief.

Mr. Stark was sitting hunched over on the bed, his elbows on his knees and his hands covering his face. He was motionless, as if he had fallen asleep. His clothes had not been damaged other than a few wrinkles from not being ironed properly in the past.

The first thing that crossed Loki's mind was a sense of indignation and the sort of annoyance he was becoming accustomed in the company of Mr. Stark. He imagined that Stark had come home raving drunk from a long Friday night, having consumed too much brandy to care that his own store had been broken into, and proceeded to collapse on the bed in an attempt to sleep it off. The thought made Loki sick with anger, so much so that he began to forget who was truly to blame for it.

"Stark?"

Mr. Stark's head popped up. His eyes were raw and dry. Some of the color had drained from his complexion.

"Yes, Loki?" he asked.

"Well? What happened? It was the Brownshirts, wasn't it?"

Mr. Stark let out a long sigh. Two cigarettes were sticking out of either side of his mouth, and smoke wafted up around his head. He tousled a lock of dark, greasy hair.

"Of course it was them. Who else would it goddamn be.."

"They raided the cash register and made a mess of the whole place. They could still be in the neighborhood for all we know. Do you realize that? Or are you too drunk to realize much of anything right now?"

Mr. Stark held up his index finger as a sign for Loki to wait.

"No, I'm not drunk."

"Oh, really, you're not drunk on a Saturday morning? You weren't out on one of your parades from one tavern to the next last night until you couldn't stand up? That's a first," Loki said bitterly.

From the hallway, Thor, who was still examining the scene of disaster, tried to make his way into the room.

"Mr. Stark, do you know which direction they went? How many were there?" he asked.

"What are you planning to do, boy? Suicide isn't the hero's job, you know."

"But, but...if Loki had been here, they might have—"

"What were you doing? What the hell happened?" Loki knew he was starting to shout, but he did not try to stop it. The more he spoke, the more rage boiled inside of him like a poison. "Are you just going to sit there and pretend you're going to wake up? This wasn't just your shop they stole from. This is my place, too! You think I don't care? Don't _you _care at all? You could have been _killed_! What would I have done if you had been _killed_?"

"Loki, it's all right," Thor said soothingly. "They're gone now. No one got hurt and that means nothing is wrong."

"Right. Nothing is wrong." Loki suddenly stopped and chomped down on his tongue. His throat ached.

He wasn't angry at Stark, and he knew that. He was angry at _them_.

Angry, why? Because they had threatened Stark's life? Because they had stolen money which would partially go to him for next week's payment? Because he now had a big mess to clean up?

Mr. Stark curled up and hugged his knees, as if suddenly ashamed. The glazed, nonchalant look in his eyes Loki was so accustomed to was no longer there. In its place were deep, dark shadows, like he was staring into a desolate void. He furiously smoked his two cigarettes as if for dear life, and his hands began to tremble uncontrollably. Then he spoke.

"They were already here by the time I got back. I wasn't drinking...I ran out of cash last night before I could even get near where I wanted to be. You know how it gets with less sales coming in this month with that bullshit boycott they pulled. Five or six of them, young-looking. One of them was just a kid, no older than little Jarvis. I saw them break the window and unlock the door from inside. Then they opened the cash register and took whatever they wanted. Knocked over the grandfather clock, too. I stood at a distance and...I just watched until they left." To Loki's surprise, Mr. Stark's voice cracked just a bit. "I didn't want them to know it was my shop, and I didn't want to get hurt. So I just watched, and hoped they would go away. And they did, when they got bored of it."

"Where was everybody else?" Thor asked.

Mr. Stark let out a loud scoff, shaking his head at the two brothers in the doorway.

"What _everybody else_? There was no one there to stop them. Everyone was going about their merry business not giving a hard-boiled fly of a damn." He laughed and ran his fingers through his hair again. "Why would they, anyway? I mean, who would want to stop them? You're just asking for trouble. Mind your own business. You have plenty of your own problems to worry about."

He sighed again, then looked straight up at Loki. In his eyes, Loki only saw a void of darkness with no emotion, no sentiment. Only a fragile numbness.

"Go home, Loki. You can't do anything here. Just go home."

All at once Loki felt a tingle of regret at saying such harsh words to him. He had never meant it that way, but it just came out. It had never occurred to him that outside of Mr. Stark's drinking habit, the shop was all he had in life as far as Loki was aware of. In a way, it _was _his life. When he wasn't raving drunk or complaining about the smallest things like wood slivers and interest rates, he was devoting all his mind and passion to his latest project. The clocks were all he had to look forward to besides the next consumption of liquor; they were all he had the energy to care for. The alcohol and the work...it was all Mr. Stark had left. The clocks meant everything to him, whether he showed it or not. They were all that mattered. What had been there in a time long ago that was now compensated or succeeded by such things, Loki did not know and might never know.

But Loki knew what it was like to have everything that mattered to you snatched away in the blink of an eye. He knew that feeling all too well.

At least, he thought he knew.

"Stark...I don't have to leave. I suppose I could...go back and count up how much money was taken out of the cash register for you. Start cleaning up the place for you, too. Maybe they did leave for good."

"Unnecessary. Goddamn unnecessary," Mr. Anthony Stark snapped.

"But just let me—"

"It's _my _shop, isn't it? I can damn-well take care of my own place, all right? Now just, run along and do what you have to do."

Loki backed away. He realized that in his state right now, Mr. Stark would be far more stubborn. There was no talking sense into him now. As he had done in the past when Stark was drunk or having a bad hangover, Loki knew it was best to leave him alone until it was over.

Nothing was wrong. No one had been hurt or bloodied up by the Nazi Brownshirts. Instead, a man with nothing but his clocks and his liquor to comfort him came home with an empty wallet to find his own shop broken into, and not one person had spoken up, and no one was going to raise a finger about it.

"Take care of yourself," Loki said quietly, just before he shut the door. He did not dare share eye contact with his brother as they took the long walk down the hall and back out of the shop.

No, Loki indeed knew why he was angry at them, the Strumabteilung.

It was because the one place he felt safe had been made a dangerous place. Not the home where his trust for his parents wavered, nor the streets where the fact that he was Jewish was spreading rapidly, and certainly not the synagogue where he was the outsider, but of all places Mr. Stark's shop. Here, it did not matter who he was or where he was from. All that mattered was how much work he accomplished, and that was all right by him. Even though it was the place where all the avoidable pain had started, it was also the same place he went back to for a bit of solace and comfort. When he could keep his hands busy with his work, away from eyes he knew would be disapproving of him, the rest of the world seemed trivial and much smaller. In fact, the outside world seemed to disappear for a little while.

And they had violated that small sense of safety. They could touch him even where he thought he could hide.

It was because of this violation that Loki began to hate them all.


	9. Verfluchen Sie die Bühne

_"The Red Space Between Us"_

_Chapter Eight: Verfluchen Sie die Bühne_

* * *

_May 2__nd__, 1933_

_._

In the darkness of twilight, a small figure maneuvered among the disintegrating crowds. His pale, bony shins were streaked with charcoal and dirt. His spat shoes were splattered with mud, excrement, and other unspeakable filth that was clear evidence of where he had been earlier in the day. His nose and cheeks were sunburned, and his little jacket was torn at one elbow and around the collar. A woolen knapsack was slung over one shoulder, swinging behind him as he ran.

The block knew him by the name of Jarvis, and Jarvis was making his nightly round to the post office to pick up mail for the clockmaker who owned the shop Clockwork and Repairs. He had several customers on the block and his work for them varied from task to task. Most of the time, they required him to fetch them a newspaper or food from the market at the lowest possible price; other times, they required more physical labor like washing a window or moving furniture.

What was unfortunate in Jarvis' case was that a group of boys who lived at the local orphanage also carried out the same sort of work. Not only were these boys older, but they were more presentable in every which and way. Even Jarvis could see that much. They had clean beds and hot baths at the orphanage, which meant they could keep their skin glowing and their fingernails clean. Their clothes were neat and kept in order. Thus, when there was work to be done for a young boy, it was almost always the lads from the orphanage who were picked instead. Everyone would sooner hire a clean, intelligent, and polite individual to run errands for them over one who lived and smelled of the dirty streets and lowliest reaches of society. In fact, Jarvis had but one loyal customer who always chose him over the others, and that customer had to be the clockmaker.

Jarvis had never felt frightened of the clockmaker, even though he was known to scare off little children who loitered too long in front of his shop. He had attempted the same on Jarvis the first few times they met, but Jarvis, who had grown up too fast living on the streets, had not been so easily startled. Only once the clockmaker realized there was no scaring away Jarvis did he begin to make good use of the boy's time and talents. That was over three years ago. Since then, Jarvis had regularly returned to the clockmaker's shop to help with work. Although his load was cut back when a permanent assistant was hired in the shop—someone from a rich family uptown—Jarvis still came back to make rounds on his block. Sometimes, even, the clockmaker would hire Jarvis to do work even when there was no need for work to be done at all, or work that he could have easily done without Jarvis' help. He never said it, but Jarvis was convinced the clockmaker would do this as an excuse to give him more money without making Jarvis feel like a beggar.

It was as if the clockmaker knew that it made a man, or a little boy, feel like a king when he earned a few coins for a job done well. It made him feel like he was on top of the world, if only for a few moments. And whether he knew it or not, giving Jarvis even the smallest or oddest job for payment had saved Jarvis' life on more than one occasion. In fact, it was not unlikely to say that were it not for the clockmaker, Jarvis would have already died of cold, hunger, or a far more gruesome fate.

For this reason, Jarvis had decided long ago that Mr. Stark, the clockmaker, was his favorite customer of all. And he would never turn down a favor from the clockmaker, no matter what anyone else said about him or what the favor might be.

When Jarvis arrived at the post office, he found only one item to be delivered to Mr. Stark: a lone telegram sent four weeks ago. He was delighted, since Mr. Stark was not exactly the type of fellow to frequently send or receive telegrams. What caught Jarvis' attention next was that the telegram had been sent all the way from Budapest, Hungary.

He tucked the envelope in the breastpocket of his jacket to keep it safe. Then he left the post office, scratching at some lice tucked in his butter-colored hair. As he walked down the narrow lane, Jarvis tried to remember overhearing about any of the clockmaker's customers living in Budapest, or of any companies that manufactured supplies for making clocks. Of course, since he had never looked inside the record books for himself, there was no way of knowing for sure.

"Maybe he got a cousin in Budapest visiting for the summer. Cousin is fond of card games and chess," Jarvis wondered aloud. He kicked up a mud puddle, which set the brown water splashing onto his yellowed socks. As he made his way across the street, Jarvis noticed a stand on the corner selling fresh fruit, including a bunch of juicy, red delicious apples. His bright blue Aryan eyes flashed ravenously.

Luckily for Jarvis, a large assembly of adults were gathered around the stand as they waited to cross the street. For a lad of his size, maneuvering between the towering figures without so much as a brush against their coats came quite easily. Jarvis glanced up and around, specifically at what any of the people might be carrying with them. Then he found what he was looking for—an older woman carrying a vase-shaped object wrapped in brown package. It had to be fragile what with the way she held it tightly to her bosom.

As he had done many times before, Jarvis found a male closest to the woman who was about to walk past her. Then Jarvis ducked, stuck one foot out, and yanked it back quickly. All that was left to do was watch as the man stumbled directly into the woman's path, breaking both her balance and concentration. The vase fell out of her hands. Instantly it shattered into dozens of pieces as it crashed onto the unmerciful pavement. The woman raised a hand to her mouth and gasped. By the time the man was back on his feet, the woman was screaming hysterically.

"My vase! My great-grandmother's precious, precious vase! Look what you've done!"

"Oh, lord, I am so sorry, ma'am. I am so sorry. Here, let me help you..."

Naturally, the scene caused many of the nearby pedestrians to look up and see what had happened. They were all suddenly interested in the screaming old woman and the blubbering man who knelt on the ground in front of the disaster. Thus, no one thought to pay attention to a small lad who was carefully slipping five of the biggest, reddest apples into his knapsack. Long before the scene was over, Jarvis had slipped away into the darkness, snickering to himself before he took a large bite out of one of his stolen trophies.

Two apples later, Jarvis had arrived at the clockmaker's shop with the telegram from Budapest. He banged his fist on the door as he licked his other palm, which was sticky with apple juice. Jarvis rocked from side to side and waited. But the clockmaker did not come to the door. He banged again.

"Telegram! I'll open it if you don't!" he hollered. His shout was a disturbing high-pitched whine, like a dog with its tail caught in a bicycle wheel. Still, his only answer was silence.

After two more knocks, Jarvis had had enough. He was about to open the door by the knob when he discovered that the lock had been broken. With a simple tap with the toe of his shoe, the door creaked open. The inside of the shop was barely lit, and Jarvis could not see a thing as he stepped through the doorway.

"You all right in there, sir?" he called out down the hall.

A faint voice answered him. It was much closer than Jarvis had been expecting.

"Yes, Jarvis. I'm quite all right."

Jarvis looked around. Something was different about the shop.

"I'm right here, kid. Down on the floor."

Jarvis dropped to his knees, sitting right across from him.

"What are you doing down there, sir?"

In the dark, he could see the clockmaker roll his eyes.

"Picking up pieces of broken glass. What does it look like I'm doing?"

"Well, quite frankly, it don't look like you're doing much of anything, on account of it's so dark in here."

Mr. Stark huffed, but he lit a lamp on the counter nevertheless.

"You're a riot. What are you doing here anyway?"

Jarvis yanked out the envelope and held it up.

"Telegram. You going to open it or what?"

"A telegram? Wasn't expecting one." Mr. Stark took it and looked inside. Jarvis crossed his arms, impatiently waiting for his small payment for delivery. Then,

"Oh, _Sheisse_."

"Is something the matter, sir?" Jarvis asked. Then he remembered. "Not from the Nazi Party, I reckon?"

"Worse than that. Much worse. It's from Budapest."

"I hear Budapest is a nice place, it is. Is it your card-playing cousin?"

Mr. Stark crumpled up the telegram and tossed it into a darkened corner.

"The only way it could be worse is if he _were _my cousin."

* * *

Frieda ran into the parlor toward the nearest mirror and checked her reflection for the thirtieth time that evening. She fixed a small curl and readjusted her pearl necklace.

Loki glanced up from where he was sprawled out on the sofa. Frieda was wearing one of her best dresses, an eggplant ruched gown, as well as her finest pearl jewelry. Surprised Loki arched an eyebrow.

"What's the occasion, Mother?"

She spun around, appearing equally surprised.

"We're all going to the theatre tonight. Your father's friend from Kreuzberg got us free tickets to the performance."

"I see. Well, that certainly _is_ an occasion," Loki drawled, twirling his fingers around a fresh cigarette which he took a long drag from.

Frieda snapped her fingers at him.

"Come now, love. No shoes on the sofa, please. And you know I don't like it when you smoke in the house."

Loki dropped his feet to the floor but kept the cigarette in his mouth, as if in defiance. Frieda crossed her arms. Inside, Loki held back a smile. He knew he was too old to be acting this childish, but it was just too much fun sometimes.

"Couldn't I just stay home and practice my music?" he whined playfully.

"You need to get out of the house. Come now, I know you love the theatre. It will be a cultural experience, and the four of us rarely go out together anymore. It would mean a lot to us if you came with. Even Thor is coming, and he detests theatre."

Frieda walked up behind him and kissed Loki on the forehead, which was just enough of a distraction for him so that she was able to snatch the cigarette out of his hand. He scowled.

"Oh, Mum..."

Thor entered the parlor, adjusting his cufflinks. He was dressed in his full military uniform, buttoning it up all the way to his neck. Every badge and button had been polished until it shone, and his boots were like mirrors. Not a speck of dust showed on the spotless coat. Even his face was clean-shaven, and he was wearing his special white gloves. He looked like a true gentleman, a man of honor. An Obermeier. Indeed, he was the spitting image of his father.

"Thor, you look very handsome," Frieda said, smiling. She gestured toward the younger brother lying on the sofa. "Please talk a little sense into him; I still have other things to attend to."

Thor glanced down at Loki.

"Aren't you coming with us to the play?" he asked. "Because you are _not_ going out dressed like that. You have to make yourself presentable."

"I don't _feel _like being presentable."

"Don't tell me you're still mad about the race. That was over a week ago."

Loki pulled out his cigarette pack from his pocket. On the day they found Mr. Stark's shop vandalized, their morning errands took too long and they ended up missing the train to Hamburg, and thus did not make it to the race. However, Thor still dragged Loki with him to the fight that night, his argument being that Engel had found them the best seats in the house. Watching Max Schmeling pound the Polish boxer to the floor until blood and sweat equally sprayed the front row had been misery for Loki, who had always been sensitive to such displays of violence. That's what he got for forgetting his cap.

"Of course not. Even I am not that childish."

"But what about...oh, never mind. Come on, we're leaving in ten minutes."

Back in his bedroom upstairs, Loki combed back his hair and kicked off his shoes. He had plenty of suits to choose from in his closet. After a thirty-second trance-like pause of staring at all his options, he finally decided on a simple but elegant black suit and a green tie.

As he was about to leave his room, something on the end-table caught his eye. It was Joseph Laskier's watch. Next to it lay the unopened telegram which he had not touched for the past week. He considered just reading it already, but when he heard the family car pull out of the garage outside, he knew he was out of time. Instead, on a final hasty decision, Loki slipped the watch into his coat pocket.

Tonight, he wanted it close.

* * *

The Obermeier family, as they had done for years, had reserved a set of balcony seats with one of the best views in the entire theatre. Within minutes of their arrival, Olek and Frieda were greeted by many family acquaintances, folks they had met through the military or prestigious social gatherings, and had known for a long time. Many of them, in fact, had watched Thor and Loki grow from small children to young adults. Attending a play such as this, written by one of Germany's top playwrights, was not an occasion to be missed if one wanted to catch up on gossip and politics. As the two brothers made their way to their seats, taking time to say hello to all recognizable faces and shake many hands, word was soon received of the play's critiques from its opening night. People who had already seen it or knew someone who had described as fascinating and a true work of art.

It did not take long for Loki to decide that he was appalled by it.

He sat silently in his seat, occasionally adjusting his coat or tugging at his tie, and always keeping one hand in his pocket where Joseph Laskier's watch was hidden. From where they sat he not only had an excellent view of the stage but also the faces of the audience below. Once in a while, when a scene or a monologue dragged on a bit too long for Loki's taste, he glanced down to see how the audience was reacting to the play thus far. This appalled him even more.

On occasion he stepped outside the balcony to smoke another cigarette, and when he did he might catch a glance at a group of young women sauntering by. They were dressed in flamboyant silk gowns reaching just below the knees, the trendy kind often associated with the term "flapper". Their arms and fingers were laced with starry jewelry, their lips popping the color of spider lilies as they snapped opened and closed, spilling words about money and dances and parties. Loki watched them from a distance, pretending that his cigarette was far more entrancing, and that he paid no mind to them. Long ago, he had become used to their presence; long ago, the novelty and attraction of diamonds, bright colors, and rich furs had worn off on him, and had lost its "spark". Unlike Thor, who went head over heels for any girl with red lipstick, it simply wasn't enough for Loki. Not anymore.

When he had left the balcony too many times for his actions to go unnoticed, Loki reluctantly sat through the remainder of the play with a hidden grimace on his face. He tried not to show it, especially as the last act began to unfold.

Finally, his brother leaned over and whispered to him. The smell of soda pop was on his breath.

"I take it you don't enjoy this one too much?" Thor waited, then shrugged, folding his hands in front of him. "Me neither. It's so dull. Next time, I vote we go to the Berlin State Opera instead. Their Shakespearean adaptations are quite realistic."

"I'm not bored. I'm disgusted," Loki spat in as quiet a tone as he could muster.

"Disgusted with what?"

Loki looked at his brother, but there was nothing but plain confusion on his face.

"You don't see it? Its heavily saturated sentimentality of the supposed _German ideal_. Making our ancestors out to be righteous, noble warriors and the rest of the world as savages. Not to mention how it romanticizes the Nazi Party so bombastically it's downright absurd. If you love the Nazi you're a hero; if you spit on his boot you're guilty of high treason. Don't you see it at all?"

Thor glanced to the next balcony down, as if to be certain of something, and then his tone grew dangerously serious.

"You shouldn't speak like that out loud...you may be mistaken for a Communist."

But Loki couldn't stand it. He could not stand watching the romantic hero of the play, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed Valentino with an impressive vocabulary and teeth the color of milk, embellishing the Nazi symbol with seemingly every chance he had, crushing every character who opposed those ideals by which the _new Germany_ stood for. Worst of all, the hero recited a monologue in every scene that was undoubtedly a comment on the political and financial state of the country. That much should have been plain to anyone who was watching it. Loki had seen better plots on radio commercials and in Thor's Tijuana bibles.

"So what if I'm speaking too loudly? It's the truth, isn't it?" he hissed.

The curtains closed. The play was over at last. The band in the pit played a drum roll for the closing instrumental finale. Their song of choice was immediately recognizable as the tune to "The Horst-Wessel Song".

_"Soon will fly Hitler's flags over every street,_

_Slavery will last only a short time longer."_

Everyone in the theatre rose to their feet, slapping their hands together and whistling in applause. It was a feverish, emotional cheer under the black, white, and red flag. It did not matter how good or terrible the play was. The play made them proud to be German and proud to wave that black spider above their heads, and that was all that mattered.

Loki did not budge an inch in his seat.

He clamped his mouth shut as he came to a dreadful realization. His words to Thor had strongly echoed the time he stood up for those little Jewish children and was almost harmed as a result. In fact, they were almost exactly the same.

Still, he remained appalled, and refused to let that change.

_It's the truth, isn't it?_

* * *

By the time their car pulled into the garage back home, Loki's cigarette pack was empty. After the play, he had lingered a while in the smoking room with Olek and Thor, which was the chance for all the men and their adult sons to converse on everything from business to politics in complete confidentiality. Thus his pack did not last long, as unlike his father and brother Loki was never fond of German cigars.

He climbed out of the car as soon as it came to a stop. This time he scarcely said "good evening" to the driver, which he almost always did. As the rest of the family took their time walking back to the house, Loki went around so he could enter through the front. He was already fantasizing about a late evening spent hanging out on the front porch, drinking a brandy and reading the newspaper while watching the downtown of Berlin twinkle in the distance.

He stepped onto the porch and almost jumped out of his skin with fright. A figure was sitting on the front step. A small figure hiding in the shadows with hair the color of butter. Then the figure jumped.

"What the hell...get out of here!" Loki hissed.

"Loki, sir, it's Jarvis," the figure said.

Loki let out a sigh of relief, his heart still beating rapidly.

"Oh, it's _you_." He remembered seeing Jarvis running along the block, doing Mr. Stark's dirty little chores. The boy was filthy, uncouth, and grasped no concept of what was considered acceptable behavior. "What the hell are you doing here? Do you know what's going to happen if you're spotted?"

"Sent from the clockmaker, Loki, sir. It's urgent, from Budapest."

"_Budapest_?" Loki echoed. Now he was indeed confused. What on earth did Budapest have to do with Mr. Stark or himself?

"Aye, Budapest...you didn't notice where it was mailed from? He sent you one, too, at least that's what the clockmaker said."

Then Loki remembered.

_The telegram! Is that what Jarvis is talking about?_

Jarvis stood up and jumped off the step.

"Clockmaker asked for your help, sir. Quite urgent from what I reckon. He's at the train station now."

_Great. Just great. This had better be important, Stark._

"Fine, I'll be there in twenty minutes."

Loki returned to his room only to snatch the telegram and a handful of change. Downstairs, Olek and some friends he had reunited with at the theatre were coming to call in the drawing room, and Frieda had barely started her evening tea. Loki used the telephone in the kitchen to call up a taxicab, then, trying to appear an inconspicuous as possible, said a hasty goodbye and ran back outside before anyone could ask him where he was going.

As the taxicab drove to the train station, Loki finally tore open the envelope and read the telegram. He inwardly kicked himself for not reading it when it first arrived. Perhaps it really was important.

The telegram merely read:

_Arriving in Germany shortly. Let us meet very soon. Sincerely, an old friend of Anthony Stark. Post Script – a trip to the archery field will be required. -from Budapest._

_An old friend of Anthony Stark? The archery field? What the hell is going on?_

Loki stuffed the telegram in his coat pocket, gently caressing the watch which was still hidden in the other. A few minutes later, the train station appeared around the bend. Loki spotted the dark, hunched-over figure of Mr. Stark leaning against a bench and ordered the driver to halt. He gave him all the money in his pocket with a request of "Keep the change." Mr. Stark, who had glanced up and looked around the station as if in expectation of someone, noticed Loki instantly.

"Oh, thank God, the kid found you."

"Would you mind telling me what is so _urgent _right now? You don't seem to urgent to—"

In an instant, Mr. Stark had grabbed Loki's shirt collar and was inches from his face. Loki twisted his mouth as he picked up the smell of strong alcohol yet _again_. Mr. Stark's eyes were wide as if he were terrified like a little child, but when Loki glanced around him there was nothing spectacular to see. Just people waiting for their trains as well as a shorter fellow in a white suit and a straw hat standing nearby.

"Loki, you've got to save me from this clown. I simply can't stand him," Mr. Stark growled.

"And what has any of this got to do with Budapest?" Loki snapped Mr. Stark's hands away from his coat. As he neatened the collar of any possible threats of wrinkles or marks, he heard someone approach him from behind. A voice called out.

"You must be the new employee at Anthony's place. You're taller than I thought you would be."

Loki spun around. It was the fellow in the white suit. He pulled out a yellow handkerchief from his breastpocket and wiped his upper lip, before twirling a cane in his other hand. He had eyes the color of a summer sky.

"So is this the clown?" he asked Mr. Stark.

"Hey, I'm not a clown. I'm the guy who sent those telegrams from Budapest." The man did a little bow with his head; Loki could not tell if it was not one of mockery or common courtesy. "I've come to resettle some old claims with Anthony. Sorry I came on such short notice, but I did inform both of you one week ahead of schedule."

"And you are...?"

"Barton. My name is Clint Barton," he said with a small smile.

* * *

_Author's Note:_

_I've decided to start doing "review trades" with anybody. In other words, if you leave a review on my fic, I will review any of your "Avenger" (or Avenger-related; "Thor", "Iron Man", etc.) fics! I know we all want more reviews on our work, and readers are critical to the authors. I've also noticed this story has been getting a lot of favorites and follows, but nos many reviews. ALL reviews are greatly appreciated and mean a lot! :)_


	10. Neue Freunde, Alte Feinde

_"The Red Space Between Us"_

_Chapter Nine: Neue Freunde, Alte Feinde_

* * *

"I'm sorry..." Loki stammered, "_what_ did you say you were coming for?"

Mr. Stark grabbed him from behind by the shoulder, hissing at the man in the white suit who stood at a small distance from Loki.

"You're a little _thief_, that's what you are."

Clint Barton raised one white-gloved hand, expressing all sign of innocence or chastity.

"Now don't take what Anthony says seriously. He's just a little upset."

"As if I don't have every right to be...!"

Loki sensed that this conversation was not going anywhere good, so instead of letting a fight break out in the station he stood between the two men and interrupted what Mr. Stark was trying to say.

"Would it not be better to continue this discussion in a more private place?"

_Whatever is going on, I want to get to the bottom of this as soon as possible. Find out who this Clint Barton from Budapest is. I wonder if he's as bad as Stark is making him out to be..._

"Jolly good idea," Clint said, but he showed no smile or sign of enthusiasm. Instead, he twirled around his cane again and stuffed the yellow handkerchief into his pocket. With one hand free he grabbed a suitcase behind him. It was at least the width of the man's arms. Before Loki could say anything else the suitcase was shoved into his chest and he had to grab it so it would not fall.

"I am plum-exhausted after that long train ride. We can go hit the tavern and have ourselves a couple drinks. Then we can catch up on business and all."

"I _really_ don't think that's a good idea..." said Loki.

Clint Barton stared up at him as if he had not understood Loki. Loki was taken aback. Surely if this man knew Mr. Stark well, according to the telegram which addressed himself as an _old friend _of Stark's, he would know of Stark's biggest weakness.

"I take it you are unaware that Stark is not on his best behavior when he is around the drink. It would be better if we talked somewhere other than a place that sells drinks."

"Oh. I see. In that case, I'll call a cab and we can talk at the hotel I will be staying in for the night." Clint set down his suitcase, and Loki was more than glad to follow. But with every second that passed, Mr. Stark only seemed to grow angrier and angrier.

_God. What the hell has gotten into him? _Loki wondered.

Before Clint called the cab, however, he shot Mr. Stark a most peculiar glance, as if out of disappointment, and it was the sort of disappointment a parent shows to a child with a disgraceful failing grade, and Loki could not help but feel that it had to do with what he said to Clint about Mr. Stark's weakness to the drink. However, for now, it was merely a feeling, and nothing more.

* * *

Back at the Obermeier house, all was for the most part quiet and still. In the drawing room, Olek was entertaining his guests from the theatre, and the air in the room reeked of cigars and brandy. The sound of playing cards slapping against the table could be heard as they engaged in a light conversation on both local and national trending events.

Thor, still dressed in his full military uniform, looked out the tall bay window in the grand foyer of the house. He clicked one heel on the white marble floor and tugged at the edge of his glove. The tip of his nose brushed against the glass.

He thought about what Loki had said in regards to the play. It had not made much sense at all while they were watching the performance, surrounded by an elated crowd, the plush red curtains and esteemed figures of the community who came to see it. But now, back home, something seemed entirely different about the whole thing, as if while watching the play Thor's vision had been blurred or darkened, and afterward his vision was made clear again. The play did not rest easily in his memory, and like old milk, it had turned thick and sour.

_"If you love the Nazi, you're a hero. If you spit on his boot, you're guilty of high treason." _That was what his brother had said towards the end of the play.

Thor looked out into the darkness that lay over the city. In the distance, the downtown of Berlin glistened brightly. He could see yet another familiar glow not too far away from their neighborhood in one of the town squares, a glow apart from the rest. Perhaps it could be another book burning.

He wondered if they would ever stop burning the books. Did they truly intend to keep burning until every last un-German book was destroyed? Wouldn't that take a long time? Was it even possible to burn that many books?

Then he swallowed hard, for he thought of the latest lecture given at the university, which had been a persuasion speech for the graduating students to apply for membership in the Nazi Party once they had finished their schooling, as well as for the other students to convince their parents to do the same. Thor had had no intention of bringing the letter of invitation home to his father, but since all of his other classmates had taken one, he finally did the same. Now the letter was in his father's study, waiting to be read. On it was a description of all the financial benefits the Nazi Party provided for its members, as well as the opportunities offered because of membership.

It all sounded so true to him, and so, _right_. It was true without a doubt that the Nazi Party treated its members well. That since the rise of the Party, the German people had developed a better sense of national pride and unity, and as a result social and economical problems had gradually dissolved. That because of the program Hitler Youth, Germany's young population was being raised to be physically fit, intellectually insightful, and fiercely patriotic.

Of course, because of the Party, Germany was a better place. How could those possibly be bad things? Thor could remember only a few short years ago when he and Loki were still in school, and the times in Germany were far worse for everyone, but especially for the poorer families. Such was a time when the Nazi Party was a small, independent group of underdog, underground radicals, and people had to bring wheelbarrows full of cash just to buy food at the grocery. Even the Obermeier house had seen a few days when the meals were leaner and the nights colder. In those days, Thor and Loki were told to be careful to not tear too many of their clothes or their mother would have to buy sewing material to repair them. They skipped their trip to Amlingstadt one year to save the travel expenses. And right outside their doorstep or down the street, sickness and starvation were not unknown to neighbors and fellow Germans.

Those days were long gone. Life had returned to the Obermeier house again. Hunger and fear no longer surrounded them, threatening to close in. The good times had returned. And according to what the professors at Thor's school said, it was all because of the Nazi Party and the new chancellor of Germany, Adolf Hitler. From here, so it was said, he would only rise in power, and thus the people would rise with him.

So it couldn't be all bad, could it? Where could the harm lie in eradicating some old dusty pages, anyway? After all, it only meant Germans would have more time and space to read the good literature which the Nazi Party was so fond of promoting and distributing. It would only draw the people closer and deeper in unison, all following the man named Adolf Hitler under the Nazi flag; and unison, as it was said, was essential in making this country a better place, and it made perfect sense as well.

How on earth could human life be threatened with but the burning of a few mere books?

If only he had known.

Thor heard his father's voice behind him.

"Son, join me in the drawing room. They haven't seen you in a while. Please, be a good host and come inside."

"Yes, of course, Father. I'll be right there."

And Thor turned away from the darkness of Berlin's nightfall, into the light of the cheerful household. Then he followed his father into the drawing room. The men inside the drawing room were currently playing bridge, as a Scott Joplin tune played on the fancy record in the backdrop. Thick cigars were sticking out of the sides of their mouths, and their black shoes glistened with fresh polishing. When they saw Thor, they paused their game long enough to say hello and welcome him to join them. Thor turned down the maid's offer for a drink and sat down on the sofa across from his father.

"Olek, I forgot to tell you," one of Olek's friends said as he munched on a cracker and caviar, "my letter of acceptance into the Nazi Party arrived in the mail just today. To celebrate, our family is being taken on a cruise, and we shall attend the Party's summer gala in Munich. You should send a letter of request, honestly, Olek. A man of your military history would be accepted without a doubt."

"I have given the possibility some consideration," Olek said quietly, refusing to return the eye contact.

"At the very least one of your sons should join the Party. What about Thor, here? Why don't you sign up?"

"But I'm still a student. I'm too young to join." Then, to satisfy their guests, Thor quickly added, "Perhaps once I have finished my education, I will submit a membership request."

He wondered how much of what he had said was true. If he would ever really want to join the Nazi Party. Supporting the Party was one thing, but joining was another matter entirely.

He thought of what Loki would make of it if Thor did submit a membership request. Would he be frightened? Angry? Or would he refuse anymore of the help Thor had promised him?

Would it be a repeat of that sickening day Thor still remembered many years later, on that deary late-autumn day in the year 1923 when he saw the bright scarlet blood stain the snow-white pavement?

* * *

Clint Barton, as Loki soon discovered, was a man of details. He was frightfully conscious of, keen with, and sensitive to the details of absolutely everything. It was as if Clint had the eyes of a hawk, and was thus able to notice what others could not in the world around them. This first became apparent to Loki when they were in the taxicab on the way to the hotel, and Clint used his yellow handkerchief to wash all the fingerprints off the inside of his window. He also made sure the loops in his shoelaces where exactly even when he tied them. His yellow handkerchief was folded and refolded several times until it was the perfect triangular shape again, only for Clint to pull it out and dab at a speck of dirt on his clothes Loki had not even noticed.

In fact, it was only once they had checked in at the hotel and all of Clint Barton's luggage was carried up three flights to his room, did he finally open his mouth to speak again.

"Anthony Stark. It is good to see you again. You look well," he said flatly.

Mr. Stark did not seem convinced at all by Clint's compliment. He crossed his arms and made himself comfortable in the nearest chair in Clint's hotel room. Loki remained standing in the doorway.

"This is about Shield, isn't it?" Mr. Stark finally snapped.

Loki glanced between the two of them. Clint had set his smallest suitcase on the bed and was beginning to unpack some belongings.

"What's Shield?"

"Oh, so you didn't tell him," said Clint.

"Of course I didn't tell him! No damn reason to bring it up. I thought that was all over years ago. Wasn't that what you _Arschlöcher_ decided?"

"Excuse me, what is Shield?" Loki asked, raising his voice.

"We've been over this before, Anthony. I had no part in the decision. Nicholas made up his mind, and that was the end of it." Clint paused, then turned to Loki. "Shield is a manufacturing company centered in Paris. I worked for Shield as an assistant manager in our Budapest factory plant. One of our company's products is clock parts, and we had a business partnership with Mr. Stark for several years."

"_Had_?" Loki asked.

Clint took off his straw hat and set it on the end table. Then he walked over to the window and yanked back the curtains. Loki heard him mutter something about what a poor job the maid had done cleaning the room. He knew he should have expected that.

"Well, yes. Stark expressed...questionable use of our funding. When the manager found out about it, all partnerships were withdrawn."

"What did you do?" Loki asked, and he turned to Stark.

"I didn't do _anything_. Nicholas just didn't like me, so he set me up."

Clint pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes briefly. Finally he, too, sat down.

"We both know the truth of what happened, but that is beside the point. You know I'm here on business terms, so hear me out." He glanced at Loki. "Nicholas Fury is the manager of our factory in Budapest. Mr. Stark was our partner from 1906 to 1922. And most importantly...my manager has sent me here to discuss negotiation terms for a new partnership with you, Mr. Stark. In other words, we want to reopen business with you."

Loki glanced down at Mr. Stark, but he did not appear too pleased with this news.

"Well, what's the matter?" Loki asked him. "Isn't this good news?"

Stark stared at him for several dreadfully long seconds. Then he laughed in sputters.

"_Now_? I don't think _now _is a good time to be doing business with the likes of me, Clint. Maybe if you were less of an idiot, you would already know that."

"Maybe if you would realize I'm representing Mr. Fury's sympathies instead of my own, you would not think I'm an idiot. Besides, I don't really care what you think of me at all."

Mr. Stark leaned back in his chair. He pulled out some tobacco from his pocket and began to roll it into a cigarette, quietly humming as he did so.

"There is something else you must know," Clint continued, gripping down on the yellow handkerchief. "Nicholas has sent me on an all-or-none business assignment. Which, in other words, means I am not leaving Berlin until you accept our new partnership."

"Oh, come on. You can't be serious," Mr. Stark cackled.

"I'm being perfectly serious. I simply have no choice but to stay here until I can go back to Budapest holding a paper with your signature at the bottom, Anthony. If I have to wait five minutes, that is fine with me. If it's five weeks, I can make arrangements. However long it takes to get you to sign the contract is how long I will have to wait."

Finally, Mr. Stark seemed tired of kidding around. He set his jaw and narrowed his eyebrows. His eyes grew dark and cold. He pointed the cigarette right between Clint's eyes.

"I'll have you know, poster boy...I am _never _doing business with Shield again. Not after how Fury threw me out like that. So take your business somewhere else. If you knew me, you'd know you're just wasting your time."

As Loki watched the two of them studying each other, and thought of the way Clint called himself an _old friend _of Mr. Stark's in the telegram, he realized Clint's words had been true. It was obvious that the two had done work together through Shield in the past, possibly as business partners or companions in the field, and had known each other for many years. It was no wonder, then, that Mr. Stark appeared so irritated by seeing Clint Barton. It all pointed back to Shield, which Stark did not want to have anything to do with anymore. Of course, as for Mr. Stark's personal grievances against Clint, that was another story entirely.

Loki sighed. If business was all this fellow had come for, he saw no apparent reason to hang around a hotel room at this hour. He walked up to them and held out his hand to Clint, who after a moment's pause, shook it warmly.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Barton. Now, if everything is taken care of here, I'll be taking my leave," Loki said.

"Of course. Although I can imagine we'll be seeing each other again quite soon," Clint said. He neither smiled nor frowned, but Loki saw a twinkle in his eye, as if he was hiding a secret that only Loki knew.

Loki smiled to himself. He decided right then and there that he liked Clint Barton.

"I imagine so, too," Loki replied. "By the way, how did you come by means of sending me a telegram as well?"

"Shield has kept loose contact with Anthony over the years even after that year of 1922. So it wasn't difficult to find out he hired a new employee at his shop, which was you. I felt like sending you one myself."

Loki was not sure whether he should feel intimidated or complimented by this gesture, and he decided to take both and choose one later on.

"And I assume the mention of an 'archery field' wasn't exactly poetic license?" he pressed.

"Well, no. I'm actually rather fond of the sport. Perhaps while we wait for Anthony to change his mind, we could entertain ourselves."

"And don't you dare take this pansy's side! If I catch you playing Sherwood Forest with Barton, I'll—"

"You'll do what? Fire him? You can't afford to fire him; you practically admitted it yourself just a minute ago," Clint said, interrupting yet a second time.

Loki had to hold back a small snicker. Clint's tone of voice alone had been enough to shut Mr. Stark up, much less keep him quiet. He could not help but wonder if Mr. Stark was the only person Clint ever interrupted at all. There was now no doubt in his mind that these two had a long history between each other.

_Yes, I like him, _Loki thought.

"So your own boss is growing jealous of you, I see," Clint said to Loki. "Well, I suppose things are going to get interesting around here."

Loki was going to say something in reply, but just to keep Mr. Stark's anger at bay, he decided to remain quiet as he turned to leave the hotel room.

After all, if there were ever a night he had probably said one too many words, it was this night.

* * *

Loki let out a deep breath, and as he left the hotel and waited for a cab to come by, he lit up another cigarette. Silently, but surely, he mulled over that evening's events. The telegram. Mr. Stark, Clint Barton. The play. He recalled the tune to the song that had been preformed at the play's end, and the very thought sickened him to his stomach.

_"Soon will fly Hitler's flags over every street,_

_Slavery will last only a short time longer."_

The words echoed in his head. Never to be silenced. Never to be ignored. Bringing back the memory of when he watched hundreds of burning books fill Berlin's night sky with a rainfall of ashes. And one despicable word lingered on Loki's tongue as he thought of _them_. The Nazis. All of them.

_Liars. They are all...rotten liars._

* * *

_November 15__th__, 1923_

_._

_Two small boys were walking past the hill on the end of the street._

_On the top of the hill was the synagogue, which had turned white with the approaching winter. It stood subtle and tall, silent but smiling in its elegant simplicity, or was it simplistic elegance, as it looked down upon the street. If it had eyebrows, it might have raised one in contemplation, as some of those buildings erected to have a heart inside it sometimes seem to do. For if one looked long enough, the synagogue seemed to look down and wonder at the world. Wonder why everyone was running so quickly. Wonder why everyone knows their days are numbered but act as if life lasts for eternity. Why humans are envied by the angels and haunted by the demons._

_The only people on the street at that time of day were the two small boys. They were walking together, shoulder to shoulder, side by side._

_The wind was unmerciful and stung their cheeks, drawing tears from their eyes and reddening their noses and ears. The earliest November sleet sprayed the pavement like a rash. Clouds hanging above threatened the first snowfall but held it back like a dam, as if in mockery._

_The first boy was taller than the other, and his hair was parted in golden locks that were ridden with dirt and a few small frostbitten twigs. His eyes, blue and bright, shone with a dying wave of adrenaline. He clutched one hand to his chest, as one of his fingers had been sprained and was beginning to swell terribly. Still, through the agony, he was all smiles._

_The second boy was smaller, skinnier, and more frail. To a passing stranger he may have appeared sickly as well. As a gust of wind attacked the pair, he sneezed twice. His black hair was smooth and clean, and faint freckles sprinkled his nose. And unlike the first boy, his green eyes were open and contemplating. Unlike the first boy who marveled over his latest battle wounds and the storm clouds overhead, the second boy caught notice of the small figure sleeping against the doorstep dressed in little more than rags, or the body of a small animal who had been left out to die in the cold. And he saw these sorts of the things as the two walked along together, and he pondered on the unfairness of the world, on why things die young before their time. Why couldn't things grow old and then die. For that matter, why did they have to die at all? Why must beauty turn to ugliness in its time, sugar turn to salt, dawn turn to dusk, and smiles turn to tears? These thoughts weighed heavy on the second boy's mind as they walked on._

_The two boys were brothers. At least, that was their reality, and what they always thought it would be._

_Suddenly, they heard footsteps behind them. They turned around and looked. The second boy swallowed, his green eyes widening in fear. The first boy stared curiously._

_"There you are, you little brat!" A group of other boys, classmates from school, ran up to them. They began shaking their fists at the second boy._

_"What is going on?" asked the first._

_"Don't be stupid, Thor. Your kid brother cheated us out on our fair share and he's going to pay for it."_

_Even in his fear, the second boy managed to smile mischievously._

_"It's not my fault you weren't smart enough to understand multiple division. It was fair and square. I didn't cheat you out of anything. In fact, _you_ were just too dumb."_

_The first boy suddenly realized what was happening. His jaw dropped._

_"Is that how you had so many chocolates after school?"_

_"We agreed to split it even, and Loki cheated. He took over half of it all!" More fist shaking._

_"Too bad. It's all gone already." Loki was lying, of course; he had not touched one piece of chocolate, for he intended to give some to his mother, for he knew she was very fond of chocolate, and savor the rest over the remainder of the month. The bag was hidden in his lunch pail, which he carried fondly in his arms._

_"What? You pig!"_

_Then it happened. The lad who had spoken up first to him, a greasy-haired and sour-faced fellow notorious for his eating habits and brute force to satisfy his appetite during lunch break, jumped at the first chance. Loki's head twisted to the side as he was punched in the mouth._

_The first boy, his brother Thor, did not know what to do._

_Should he protect his brother, who deceptively tricked the others out of their well-earned candy? Or should he let all fairness prevail so the boys could have their vengeance?_

_Did that make it right to stand by?_

_"You little pig!" the boy shouted, and he threw another punch._

_Loki's body hit the pavement, but he quickly scrambled back to his feet. By then, the rest of the group which summed to a total of four including their leader, slowly surrounded him. Thor backed out of the circle, clutching his hurt hand._

_"You're a thief! You cheated!" they hissed, like snakes._

_"I didn't cheat! It was fair and—"_

_More punches. Then kicks, from four pairs of ice-coated boot heels._

_How could Thor possibly stand by? How could he not defend his own little brother?_

_However, the answer to that question lay not in Thor's own level of fear or cowardice, but in what he was going to decide was more important. Indeed, if it was more important that he stand back as the witness of what these boys had deemed justice, or intervene as the older brother. Whether it was more important to Thor that he act as his brother's defender, or the witness of his peers' judgment upon what they believed was wrong._

_Snagged in the bear trap of those two decisions, he became unable to move, absolutely frozen in place. The wind brought fresh tears to his eyes._

_Then, he could finally speak._

_"Leave him alone!"_

_The group stopped in the work and glared up at him. Thor went on._

_"Maybe Loki cheated, but he has a point. If you knew division multiples better, he wouldn't have outsmarted you. Maybe _you_ should just pay attention in the classroom."_

_"Multiple division," someone in the group corrected._

_"Now you leave him alone, or...or I'll tell my father! My father is a soldier. He can beat all of you and _your _fathers up!"_

_Thor was convinced his threat had worked, but in reality his intervention had merely taken the fun out of the boys' sport. When Thor was finished speaking, they backed away and left. Thor ran up to his brother to help him up._

_"Loki, are you okay?"_

_"Let me go! I'm fine," Loki snapped._

_Thor saw a drop of blood fall from his brother's lips. It was bright against the cold sleet of the pavement, a brilliant red against cold, unforgiving white. It was an image Thor would not forget for a long time. The bright red staining the snow-white._

_But Loki could not get up by himself. He sneezed and sprayed the pavement with red._

_"Let me help you up. You can't do it," Thor said._

_And finally, when he was too tired of trying by himself, Loki let his brother wrap an arm around him and pull him up. Thor used the end of the his scarf to dab the blood from his little brother's face. They walked on, silently cursing with words they had yet to learn from their elders, as the late afternoon slowly succumbed to evening. Thunder rolled in the distance. Rain was approaching. A final send-out of the autumn before the first snowfall._

_"I'm sorry I let them do that to you," the first boy finally said. It was half to himself, and half to the second boy._

_The second boy just shook his head._

_"I didn't cheat, I swear it. They were just too stupid."_

_"I believe you." But Thor was not entirely sure if he did._

_The darkening clouds looked on at the lone drop of blood that stained the crisp white of impending, blinding winter._

* * *

One short year passed quietly by in the city of Berlin.

As a synagogue stands on the top of a hill at the end of the street, watching all go by, the hours blend into days, and the days blend into weeks, which become months that will eventually form years later remembered. For now, however, little seemed significant.

Little seemed more significant than this:

A young Jewish man who up until that fateful day of March 2nd, 1933, was convinced he was a pureblood German, and was adopted from a dead father and mother he will never know. A young man, as he approaches his twentieth birthday, is still able to continue the life he has always known since he was a small boy.

It is a life of self-doubt and mystery. He tried to walk into that synagogue more than once and was only left with more questions and more self-doubt. Was it even worth trying to tap into the identity he has never known? Was it worth briefly turning away from the name he had always known to embrace the name of Laskier?

It is a life of pretending. That as he turns away from the name of Laskier and embraces the name of Obermeier, he pretends he is German like the rest of rich old men and beautiful young women around him, as he follows along to the same social occasions and cultural activities. In the air, he smells the ashes of burnt books as they sprinkle onto his black hair and the cold pavement. In the distance, he hears the children scream with delight as the marching band starts up another Nazi song.

One day, he will pretend no more.

A man alone in his workshop. His only company is a little street boy named Jarvis and the man named Clint Barton now taking possession of the apartment just one block down, who visits periodically in an attempt to discuss business with Shield. As always, the drink is the promise of a cheerful morning, the hope for endurance into the long afternoon, and the antidote for an empty evening and night. As the empty bottles glare mockingly into the long hours of each and every night, the saddened faces of the clocks gaze sorrowfully. Always existing is the impending fear of another raid or another loot that no one will turn their heads to, nor raise a finger to protest or put a stop to. This, he dreads more than anything else.

An old man who knew the fellow Joseph Laskier almost twenty years ago, who held on to that precious watch until the time was right to pass it on. He long regrets the bad impression he left on Joseph Laskier's son. He dreads when that son will walk through the doors of the synagogue only to announce he will never return to them again.

A young man who turns away from the darkness covering his city, into the brightness of his house. The red, white, and black flags dance above him, swinging in rhythm to the ballet of the flames. The anthem echoes in his head, but the tune is without words, as the words passed him by in favor of the patriotic melody. And perhaps, he wonders, there is no possible chance that human life may be compromised by a few mere book burnings.

Two brothers pretended such a life was never going to change.

In due time, they would be proven quite wrong.

* * *

_AN:_

_Once again, I uploaded a week late! I'm so sorry, my readers! A lot of personal stuff came up and writing moved to the back, back burner! All well...things should get more normal now._

_I'm still doing "review trades"...write a review for my fic and I'll read/review any of your "Avengers" (or Avengers-related) fics! Let's pass the review-love around! This is a very challenging story for me to write, and reviews are a huge encouragement and motivation for me to keep going with it. Really, I wouldn't have made it past the first chapter were it not for my awesome reviewers :)_


	11. Seufzer der Liebe

_"The Red Space Between Us"_

_Chapter Ten: Seufzer der Liebe_

* * *

_[Historical context: By now, several laws have been initiated against the Jews. Some of these include exclusion from the Arts and prohibition from owning land. On July 20, the SS (Schutzstaffel) was made an independent organization from the Sturmabteilung. Adolf Hitler's campaign against the Jews is already into play; however, Hitler does not have full control of Germany yet. He is still only the Chancellor, and the President of Germany, von Hindenburg, is still alive and in office. But the President's health has been failing throughout the summer, and now he lies on his death bed...]_

* * *

_Berlin, Germany - August 1, 1934_

_._

Clint Barton felt himself tugging at his suit collar as a drop of sweat trickled down his Adam's apple. With one last swallow, he stepped forward on the walk, which led to the house at the end of the dirt road. Another drop of sweat ran down Clint's neck, even thought he was shivering through his coat. When Clint arrived at the front porch of the house, he held up his bouquet of roses. It was a late afternoon, and the day was already slipping to an end as the sun leaned down towards the west.

The old Bavarian countryhouse was surrounded by grazing fields and pastures that had all turned golden with the late summer. It was a secluded, but well kept home that was about a forty-minute car ride from Berlin, and was also the largest and richest house within a fifteen-mile radius.

With one last tug on his collar, Clint rattled his knuckles on the door. He counted exactly ten seconds before it opened. Even though he had been anticipating this moment for not just the entire walk up the path, nor his entire day, but ever since he arrived in Berlin on train just over one year ago, he was still honestly startled to see her again.

She could not speak at first. Then,

"...Clint?"

"Hello, Natasha. It's been a long time."

"My goodness. It's really you, Clint." The pause was long and awkward for the both of them, she shifting her weight in the doorway and Clint trying to stand straight and tall. "I...I thought you were still living in Budapest with your job at Shield."

"I got lucky. My job brought me back to Germany, and I've been here just over one year, now. And then...I found out you had decided to come back to live with your parents, so I thought I'd..." Clint's voice trailed, and he could not help but glance back through the front window. "Do you think it is all right for me to be here?"

Natasha Romanoff smiled.

"What do you think?" she asked. She stepped forward, tucking a curl of red hair behind her ear.

Clint had, in fact, met Natasha at a dance in Budapest while he was just beginning to work for Shield. The instant Clint had laid eyes on her at the other end of the room, his legs became like noodles and his tongue a giant knot in his mouth. Still, prevailing through the horrific metamorphosis brought upon by the sudden increase in hormone level, Clint had managed to ask Natasha to dance with him. Three dates later, he had the nerve to bring her a box of heart-shaped chocolates.. After five more dates, he was already putting money away for an engagement ring. It was right about that time that Natasha had to leave the country to help out a friend in Paris. Unfortunately, because of such a short notice, they had little time to prepare for goodbyes, and it felt quite literally as if they had been snatched away from each other. All of that was two years ago, and for two years, Clint had been all but unable to write a single letter to her, as much as he wanted to with all of his heart.

And now, here she was, standing right in front of him like the night they first met. She was wearing a silk burgundy dress. She had worn it on their fifth date. He loved that dress dearly. He also loved the way she always tucked that one rebellious little curl behind her ear, and the way she put more lipstick on her lower lip than her upper lip, and the way she batted her eyelashes when she was pretending not be impressed by his antics.

"How are you, Clint?"

"Huh?" he asked, startled for the second time that evening.

"I asked, how are you, Clint?"

"Me? Oh. I am doing quite well. I mean, Berlin is a nice city, and my job is going well. How are you?"

"Fine. Just, fine."

"I brought you some flowers, 'Tasha. They're your favorite kind." He held them out for her to see.

"Tulips are my favorite kind, Clint. These flowers are roses."

Clint blinked, then stared down at the bouquet in his hand.

"Really? I could have sworn these were tulips. _Przepraszam_...!"

Natasha's smile widened, and in one sweeping gesture she took the the bouquet of roses and held them up to her nose, inhaling their sweet aroma prior to a sigh of pleasure. "It's all right, Clint. Roses are my third favorite. But I think they just became my second."

"Oh, good. I mean, that's—that's great. Are you busy tonight, Natasha?"

"Depends. If my parents are having more of those fresh Gestapo officers for tea and caviar tonight, I think I could find myself occupied with something else."

"How would you like to accept my invitation to a dinner tonight? We can go for a drive afterward and admire the city at night, that is, if you like the city at night. We can always admire the countryside at night too, or whatever you like to admire at night. You can wear that lovely dress and your summer hat and ribbon, and I reserved us a real nice spot at the restaurant on the River Spree where we can watch the musicians on the stage from a dark little corner and drink Beerenauslese, and then after that—"

"Clint."

"Yeah, 'Tasha?"

She hesitated before setting the flowers aside on the porch's swinging bench. She sucked in her lower lip. From inside, Clint heard an old man's deep, booming voice.

"Who's at the door?" the old man called out.

"It's Barton, Father."

"I know, I intruded without much notice, didn't I?" Clint grunted, half to himself, but he piped up again quickly. "That's all right, because I can always give you my apartment number and you can call me when you're ready, or I can come pick you up when—"

"Clint, it's not that. Not at all."

He heard a dark, rare tone in her voice.

"'Tasha, what is it? Is something the matter?" he asked.

"_Barton_?" her father echoed. "You mean the pint-sized Polish intern working for that nonsense Fury?"

Clint bit the inside of his cheek.

"It's just that, Clint..." Natasha dropped her gaze, stared down at her high heels, and looked back up at him. "My parents still don't appreciate you. Not after the things you said about the Nazi Party back when we were dating. They still haven't forgiven it."

Once Clint had recovered, he beckoned for her to come down from the porch so the rest of their conversation would be more hard-of-hearing for her parents, and she did. Then Clint's voice, too, turned dark and rare.

"Are they going to report me?"

"No. Oh, no, they wouldn't go that far. But like I said, they haven't forgotten it. You remember that conversation we had when you first met them, and they asked what you thought of Adolf Hitler? You see, if you remember what I told you afterward, my father is a member of the Nazi Party."

"Please, 'Tash, you are still important to me, and I'm not about to—"

"That's not it. Listen, you know what my family is like, don't you?"

"A little bit," he said, almost sarcastically.

"Clint, my father _worships_ Hitler. He reads three pages from _Mein Kampf _aloud every evening, right before the Bible." She paused. The silence was filled with dread. Then, "My parents want me to enlist. In the SS."

"They can't make you."

"You don't know my parents after all, then."

"Oh..." Clint took a few steps back.

"It's dangerous for you to come here if you're still talking like you did in Budapest," she murmured. "If you go far enough, my parents will feel threatened. Like you're trying to brainwash their only daughter. In that case, they wouldn't hesitate to report you to the Gestapo."

"The Gestapo? They haven't even been around one month. They're still unorganized."

"Clint, listen. The Gestapo aren't like the Brownshirts. They don't play around and go out for fun...I would know. My uncle has an entire company under his command."

"I'll be all right. Trust me, Natasha, I know some powerful people in Budapest who could get me out of a jiffy in an instant."

She took a deep breath and glanced away, as if trying to regain her composure.

"How long have you been back in Germany, Clint?"

"Just over one year."

"Then by now you should be aware of where things are heading. The political situation in Germany is very dangerous. The President will be dead soon, and when he is, Hitler will surely be granted absolute powers. You have to be careful what you say when others can hear you."

"Well, then...when can I see you?"

"When I'm in town on the weekends should be safe enough. And don't tell me it's unusual for the woman to pick up the man on a date."

"I won't, but it's still unusual."

Natasha smiled, and consequently, inevitably, so did Clint. For a small and beautiful moment, they could both chuckle to themselves like smitten children, standing there in the fading light as the sun cast golden rays across the heads of wheat grass surrounding the big countryhouse. Then, as the moment came to an end, Natasha narrowed her brows and looked up at him in all seriousness. Her mint-tea breath warmed the tip of Clint's nose.

"Well, then...good night, Mr. Barton."

"Good night, Ms. Romanoff."

After he had kissed her hand Clint Barton backed away, returned to his car, and disappeared down the dirt lane. Natasha stood there for a while, alone in the growing chill of late afternoon.

She contemplated quietly.

* * *

"You look very handsome tonight, Thor," said the woman at Thor's side.

"And you look beautiful, darling." Thor wrapped his arm around her waist and smiled down at her. The pair sat close together in the backseat of the Obermeier family car, which drove down the lane to the Clärchens Ballhaus, one of the most luxurious dance halls in the city. And as luck would have it, this particular hall had just the appropriate level of elegance and romanticism to befit the new, young, and deeply in love couple who were squeezed together in the black car.

Thor, of course, was beside himself with excitement and giddiness. He had not had a girlfriend since he graduates from high school, after which they had decided to break it off so they could focus on their academical pursuits. That had been over two years ago, which was, indeed, nothing short of an eternity!

The woman at Thor's side piped up.

"I heard someone was going to meet us tonight. So, are you going to tell me who it is, or do you take pleasure in holding a gal in suspense?"

"Why, yes...I mean, no. Of course I can tell you. I am going to introduce you to my younger brother, Loki. And tomorrow night, I'll take you to visit my parents. He had some time to give to the Ballhaus this evening, so I invited him to join us."

"That sounds great. I've wanted to meet your family for a while. Just promise me we'll have some time alone tonight as well, of course. After all, we wouldn't want your brother to be stuck as the third wheel the entire time."

"Oh, no, of course not." Thor thought for a moment. "I think you will find the two of you share many common interests."

By then, the black car had pulled up to the Ballhaus. Thor fixed his uniform coat, climbed out of the backseat, and ran around to the other side. Then he took the dark-haired woman by the hand. The two of them were all smiles as they ascended up the marble steps to the entrance of the hall.

At the entrance, a servant opened the tall white doors, revealing the marvelous interior of the Clärchens Ballhaus. The creamy-white walls were adorned with intricate architectural designs over a century old, and laced with gold designs that only added to the room's glow. Several Victorian chandeliers hung from above, glistening brilliantly. Along the sides of the room mahogany tables were lined up in various rows and columns, all of which had the finest tablecloth and a set of lit candlesticks. Many of these tables were occupied by couples, groups of couples, or collections of men and women. Some of them were sipping wine or smoking cigars quietly, absorbing the Vivaldi piece played by the orchestra at the back of the room; others were chatting and laughing amongst themselves, sharing political jokes and old memories. However, all of them were of the brand of most esteemed gentlemen and ladies of Berlin's high society, dressed in their finest tailored suits and custom-made dresses, respectively. The air was rich with the aroma of fine wines, expensive cigars, floor polish, and burning candle-wax.

For the male half of this particular young couple, the sight and smells were in no way unfamiliar to him. However, in regards to the female half, her heart was pounding in her chest with a mixture of exhilaration and anxiety.

"I've never done something like this before...are you sure this dress is all right?" she whispered nervously.

"_Du bist sehr sch__ö__n_...you are very beautiful." He looked around the room for a few seconds until he saw their table, and gently pulled his girlfriend along by his side.

At their table, a younger, thinner, dark-haired man in a black suit with a scarf decorated in green and gold, stood up to greet the female stranger and the young soldier walking beside her, and as he wet his lips with his tongue, he forced a smile.

It was unbeknownst to any of the three, that only four tables away sat a man a head higher than anyone else around him. A man with almond ocean eyes and a calm, weathered face that had a sort of perpetual sneer to it as if he were constantly chuckling to himself. He clenched and unclenched the napkin in his hand, as he clutched a thick cigar between the index and middle finger of his other hand.

"Well...as luck would have it. After over one year, he's back," Avner Kaufman muttered to himself. He dropped the napkin onto his plate.

* * *

"Loki, this is my girlfriend, Jane Foster. Jane, this is my younger brother. She's still learning German, so use as much English as you can."

Loki's forced smile spread as he took her hand in his, leaned down, and planted a soft kiss on the back of Jane Foster's hand.

"A pleasure, Ms. Foster," he said warmly.

Jane was all smiles as she and Thor sat down at the round table. Loki had already ordered a bottle of wine for them, which promptly arrived as soon as the couple had made themselves comfortable. Thor quickly took a sip from his wine glass.

"I've heard a lot about you," Jane said to Loki. Then she quickly added, "Thor says you're a talented pianist. That you even composed your own piece?"

"That is correct, although I won't take too much credit for it. I am sorely lacking in my composing skills."

Jane nodded. Loki glanced her up and down. She was a dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty, a blend of elegance and simplicity that had to have come from some Italian or French stock. She seemed petite even for a woman, but the last word Loki would have used to describe her was _frail _or _timid_. Even with the first glance, Loki could see a special level of strength and deep intellect about her, like she had always stood on her own two feet and came through still striding on the other side.

Years later, Loki would reflect on the fact that, from the instant he laid eyes on Jane Foster, he knew in his heart that she was the perfect match for Thor.

"You are an American," he said, as he could not help but notice her foreign accent.

"Yes, I am. I came to Germany to study astronomy. An old friend of our family lives not far from Berlin. He's an expert on the subject, and I'm going to be his apprentice for a few years along with some other students. We might even take a trip up north to the Baltic Sea coast to his observatory for the winter."

"She is taking a couple classes at the same college I'm going to. That's, well, how we met," Thor quickly explained.

"If you don't mind, Loki," said Jane, "I'd like to hear that piece you composed some time or another. If it really is as bad as you say it is, why don't you take the time to revise it, or work on another one?" She put her elbows down on the table and leaned forward, so that Loki had no choice but to look right back at her. Her tone was firm but gentle. "You know, I believe many musicians who are too afraid to take a risk die with the music still inside them. Who knows how many thousands of songs the world has missed out on because they convinced themselves they were incapable?" Then there was a twinkle in her eye as she fixed her hair. "You should keep composing. Maybe it could knock some sense into your brother and get him to study more."

"I do too study...!" Thor laughed. Jane laughed with him.

"Now, if you'll excuse me," Jane said, and she slowly rose from her chair. "I think I'm going to take a short walk around the place. And when I get back, Thor, you _are _going to dance with me, right?"

Thor nodded. With that, Jane left. Loki turned to his brother, feeling a bit mentally tired from having to scramble together all the English he knew.

"So...what do you think?"

Loki answered after some thought,

"I like her. She's quite the pistol. She'll knock your shoulder out."

"You really think so?"

"Why wouldn't I? You got yourself a Yankee girl. Best watch your back and keep your fingers crossed."

"Oh, get out. Damn, I'm going to dance with her." As Thor stood up, he finished off his glass of wine and fixed his tie for the fortieth time that night. "Any tips, Loki? I haven't done this since the tenth grade."

"Light feet, start slow. That's all I got."

"Enough for me." Thor dashed off to find his date, looking happier than a schoolboy.

Loki traced the rim of his wine glass with his index finger, sighing quietly to himself. He stole a glance around the room at the people sitting at their tables, eating and drinking, laughing and dancing.

_Do any of them know? _he wondered. _Do they know what I really am?_

It had been over a year now. One year and five months since the day a drunken Mr. Stark spilled just enough words to send him over the edge, and bring him down to the confrontation with Olek that revealed the hidden truth about his past. Still, it seemed like yesterday that had all happened.

Loki could still remember what it had felt like to have the soldier's gloved fingers grab his chin and...examine him, his physical features...to determine if he was Jewish as the young man in the crowd had accused him of being. He had been lucky enough that no one on that street recognized him as the son of Olek Obermeier; otherwise, he would have been in trouble.

He could only wonder when it would happen again. And when it did, what it could cost him.

Suddenly, the hairs stood up on the back of Loki's neck. He heard a voice behind him mere inches from his ear.

"Hello, Loki Laskier."

Loki spun around in his chair. He glared up at the man who was standing behind him, leaning over with his hand on the back of Loki's chair.

Of course! It was the Jewish merchant in the synagogue that night! Avner Kaufman. The one who was blabbering on about his support for the book burnings, and the horrible stories he told about Joseph Laskier. Loki had never forgotten that night, either.

"_You_..." he hissed. "You were the one who—"

"Relax, my boy. It would be unwise for you to stir up a heated argument in a place such as this. I am a merchant making my money in the richest European industries of the decade, and you are the son of one of the most honored men in the neighborhood. Don't exactly want to make a bad name for ourselves, now do we?"

Loki shuddered as Avner Kaufman walked around him and sat down in the chair Jane Foster had been in mere minutes ago.

"What do you want?"

"You attended Shabbat once and we never saw you again. Would you care to explain the reason for your absence?"

"I don't have to explain anything to you," Loki snapped, turning away from him. "Besides, why would it matter to you if I never came back? You said yourself I'm just a bastard-child. Didn't you?"

"I have nothing against you, Laskier. So far you have given me no reason to hold you in low regard."

Loki held back a sneer at the older, taller man in the gray checkered suit.

"Well, to answer your question, I was given a bad impression of the place by a certain man who called my father a string of names I wouldn't repeat in public. And what I practice is none of your damned business, anyway."

Loki jumped as Avner Kaufman's large, meaty hand slapped down on top of Loki's wrist. Almond ocean eyes glared right into him, and it was at that moment, for the first time in Loki's entire life, that he felt as if he were being compared to his biological father—Joseph Laskier—and not his adopted father.

"_Laskier_..." Avner whispered. As he spoke, all the sound effects in the background died out. The orchestra waltz, the dancing, the laughter, the chatter, the gossip, the toe tapping and glass clinking and dozens and dozens of footsteps. There was only the dark, leathery face of the Jewish man sitting across from Loki at the table. "_Laskier_...listen to me. I had incorrect premonitions about you when we first met at the synagogue, and these past several months have helped me prove myself wrong. I am not a thief nor a private eye...I am just a merchant who stroke good luck."

Loki began to feel sick to his stomach. But Avner Kaufman was not finished.

"In the year 1914, you were adopted by the Obermeier family. You did not return to Berlin to stake your father's claims. You lived here all along under a different last name."

"What the hell are you getting at?"

"What am I getting at? I would be very careful what waters I tread in this town if I were you, young Laskier." Avner, too, glanced around before he went on. "The people in this room...the people who walk through the doors of your home into the dining hall and the drawing room...they are the ones who are unaware of your true heritage. I do not think I need to stress the severity of the humiliation it would bring upon your family if the truth was discovered. I would know. I am Jewish, too, Laskier. I lost two of my best customers in the past month because of that fact."

"Are you saying you don't think I can keep a secret?" Loki demanded, but his mind could not help but think back to Mr. Stark and the man's notorious big mouth. "There was only one time someone pointed it out. I don't know who the hell told him, but he goes to the same school as my brother. If—"

"That is beside the point. You are also forgetting that save for Uriah Stern, Stark, myself, and the other friends of Joseph Laskier who are scattered across Germany and Austria, nobody else in the Jewish community knows you were adopted. Like myself in the beginning, they will assume you have returned to Berlin under your father's name."

Loki paused.

"What you are saying is, anyone will assume Loki Obermeier and...Loki Laskier are two different people. Depending on which name they know me by."

"That is correct. On one side, you're a spoiled German boy. On the other, the son of a nobody Jew." Avner Kaufman smiled. "And now you are at last catching on to the reality of your fragile situation."

Loki's eyes darkened. His fingers danced along the edge of his wine glass. He had to think about this.

The more he mulled on Avner Kaufman's words, the more Loki realized he was right. It was only that small circle who knew those two names, Loki Obermeier and Loki Laskier, belonged to the same person. And more importantly, as long as no one else found out that he was adopted, and the family from which he came from, it would stay that way.

"And you are telling me this...why? To mock?" His tone turned sour with scorn and mocking. "Or is this a form of blackmail from you?"

With that, Avner Kaufman stood up and leaned over the table.

"I already clarified I have nothing against you, my boy. I believe I speak for Uriah Stern as well...he tells me he often worries about you and wishes to see you again soon, at least that is what he told me. And, also...I would _hate _to see trouble befall you and your family because you did not keep the old washed-up clockmaker's tongue in check."

Loki swallowed hard. So _that_ was what Avner was getting at.

"You have something against Anthony Stark, don't you? _And _Joseph Laskier."

Avner Kaufman's jaw tightened and he straightened up, fixing his coat.

"What did Mr. Stark and my real father do to you?"

"That is none of your business. You have enough to worry about, anyway." He smirked, and with one final word of, "Watch your steps, lad," he turned away and disappeared into the crowd.

Loki discovered he was breathless and he gasped for air.

_Dammit._

This was even messier than he thought it was.

* * *

Later on that night, as the trio walked out of the back entrance of the Ballhaus to the outdoor pavilion, Jane ran on ahead to see the view of the night sky as darkness had fallen completely by then. They were waiting for the Obermeier's driver to to pick the couple up and bring a taxicab for Loki.

While Jane was looking up and fixing her hair again, Thor delayed catching up with her and turned to his younger brother. Loki sensed that his brother had been searching for the opportunity to speak with him in private for some time, and frankly he did not blame Thor for that. Since the unnerving conversation with Avner Kaufman, Loki had been quiet and fairly shaken up during the remainder of their stay at the Ballhaus, but he did not mention it to either of them. Needless to say, that would complicate matters.

"Loki...are you all right?" Thor asked once Jane was out of earshot.

"Why do you ask?"

"You haven't been acting like yourself since Jane and I went off to dance. Did something go wrong? Was it something, that I did?"

But Loki refused to say it. Inside, he refused to let this moment with Thor ruin the rest of his night. He would not dampen his brother's spirits. Thor had a girlfriend again, and was happier than Loki had seen him in months. Besides, Thor would just make a mess of things if he found out.

"It's nothing at all; I had a great time tonight."

"Loki?"

He swallowed the truth and gave his brother an encouraging nod.

"Trust me, I'm all right."

At least it was not the first lie he had told.

"Aren't you coming, Thor?" Jane called out to him.

"Coming, darling."

"_Darling_?" Loki echoed with a laugh. Thor, too, laughed, for the sole reason being that he had heard his younger brother's laughter. "Aren't nicknames a bit early, you think?"

"Not for Jane."

"And neither for the twenty-three girls you courted in high school? 'Greta, my beloved'. 'Lucy, my love'. 'Helena, my spring flower'," Loki sang, mocking Thor's tone of voice he used whenever he was smitten with a young woman's locks of hair or choice of perfume.

"Surely it wasn't _twenty-three_...!"

"For the record, literally, I counted them," Loki said smugly. Finally; he had been waiting endlessly to make good use of that tidbit of information.

"All right, all right, I get it. But Jane is different. I can promise you that."

"Of course she is. In that case, then, you'd run go after her."

As Loki watched them head to the car, a bitter taste swarmed in his mouth.

_There he goes...Thor, the perfect son. Father's favorite. Going after yet another girlfriend. And a Yankee, at that. Father is going to be so proud of him._

_As for myself...I need to have a serious talk with Mr. Anthony Stark._


End file.
